The Last Years of the Fourth Era: First Seed
by Kim Chang-Ra
Summary: Ancano's death was only the beginning. After hearing the mad elf's mysterious last words, the newly named Arch-Mage of Winterhold must now race to stop an ancient, unseen enemy and his monstrous, interminable cohort—and their plot to throw Skyrim into chaos. (Occasional intersection with Dark Brotherhood questline.)
1. Prologue

**A/N: As you might imagine from the title, this is a prequel of sorts to ****_Second Seed_****, so there's little to spoil within this story. Reading that fanfiction is certainly encouraged, but not required.  
**

**Warning: Rating is for thematic violence as well as exceptional blood and gore—several chapters WILL deal with necromancy, so take that as you will.**

**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is © 2011 by Bethesda Softworks; all original characters and content are mine.**

**Hope you enjoy! - K**

* * *

PROLOGUE

_It is the 203rd year of the Fourth Era, and the beginning of the end for the Empire of Tamriel. The province of Skyrim is once more embroiled in war; Stormcloak forces, commanded by the renegade Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, have seized the city of Whiterun and dealt a crippling blow to the Empire._

_To make matters worse, Vittoria Vici, first cousin to Emperor Titus Mede II, has been killed in Solitude at her own wedding feast. The callous act shocks the continent—many are quick to blame the Stormcloaks, though there are whispers of darker forces at work. Regardless, there are rumors that the Emperor is en route to Skyrim to attend Vici's funeral, meaning tensions in the province are higher than ever._

_But the mages who study at the College of Winterhold—just as isolated from the affairs of the rest of the world as they are from the rest of Skyrim—have more pressing issues at hand than politics and blood …_

* * *

"_In many ways, [magic] is a question of extremes—how far we would permit our studies to take us."_

\- Quote attrib. to Voth Karlyss, Magister of Corinthe

* * *

_Winterhold_

Grimnir Torn-Skull strode onto the crumbling bridge with purpose in every step, and determination in his blue eyes. It was this bridge that connected Winterhold to the rest of the world—well, the bridge and no small amount of magic, Grimnir was sure; there was no other way that the meager thread of weathered stone could support him.

He was big for a mage, and broad at the shoulder as well—almost as much of a Nord as one could possibly be. Far from the spitting image of Ysgramor—Grimnir would know; he had seen him in person just two years ago, and had failed to see why anyone would make the comparison. Yet he also knew that behind Ysgramor's blue eyes, there was, again, that same flame of determination behind that gaze—and for a moment, Grimnir had remembered pausing in the Hall of Valor that fateful day, and he had wondered if perhaps he did indeed have something in common with the one whom they called "the First Harbinger."

But right now, his mind was elsewhere, as his mind was drawn to the reason he had come back to this place.

The last time he'd seen that swirling vortex of energy, it had only been a mere twenty feet wide—enough to fit inside the Hall of the Elements with room to spare. But that had been a few days ago—and much had happened since the moment Ancano had betrayed them all.

The mad elf had killed Arch-Mage Savos Aren with a single thought—such was the power behind the source of this magickal barrier. He had meant to tap into its power from the beginning—ever since the damned thing had been wrenched from its enchanted plinth in Saarthal. And in doing so, he'd done irrevocable damage to the fabric of reality. Winterhold had nearly been consumed by the strange beasts that had emerged from the tears left in the wake of the Thalmor's folly.

Suddenly, Grimnir paused. The shield that had once consumed Ancano and his new toy—and now threatened to consume the entire College—was distorting. There were many flashes and streaks of light, and only when Grimnir saw these streaks break free of the ward did he know what they were—and whom they were heading for.

More of the glowing anomalies he'd fought in the town several days ago swooped for Tolfdir, Faralda—two of his instructors—and Arniel Gane, a scholar that he'd met in Saarthal. There were almost a dozen of them—normally too many for them to fight at once—but Grimnir knew several spells that could deal with large groups of enemies at once.

He charged one such spell in his hand, and released it at the anomalies. The ice storm grew and grew until it enveloped them all, freezing them into tiny crystalline fragments that fell to the bridge with a small tinkling noise.

Everyone looked around to see the new arrival, and it struck Grimnir how very different they all looked. Faralda was nursing several cuts on her olive-colored face. Arniel was no different. And the normally kindly face of Tolfdir … Grimnir had never seen the master of Alteration look so tired.

"You survived!" wheezed the old Nord. "You have it, then?"

Grimnir nodded, and produced the object from within his bulging satchel—an ornately carved staff with a round, flawless crystal at one end that swirled with ancient energy. "I hope this is worth it," he whispered huskily, "I—_we_—went through a lot of trouble to recover this thing."

He glanced behind his shoulder. Three other students—Onmund, J'zargo, and Brelyna—waited behind him. They had been at his side almost since Saarthal. He had gotten to know them quite well over the past few months, and now he could not imagine a day without their company, and the odd friendship that had been forged in the time since—forged by time, fire, and the horrors of Labyrinthian, not least of which had been the former master of the Staff of Magnus.

Tolfdir gazed at this staff with abject reverence. "Incredible … " he whispered. "Let's hope it's as powerful as the Psijics believe. We've lost too many people as it is already."

They must have seen Grimnir's face fall at the mention of the word "people"—implying Savos Aren had not been the only person to fall to Ancano's designs. "Mirabelle didn't make it," Faralda said sadly. "When it became clear we would have to fall back, she elected to stay behind … covered our escape."

The news came as a blow to Grimnir, and his friends with him—losing the Arch-Mage had been bad enough, but his Master Wizard as well?

Onmund's face was hard as Nord steel. "Let's go," he said, voice low and shaking. "Let's get in there."

J'zargo, normally as cocky as any Khajiit, could only nod resolutely.

"We're with you," Brelyna could only say—but it was enough.

And the four mages strode towards the College—and the ward that swirled around it.

The wind was incredible—Grimnir was almost half deaf, it was shrieking so loudly. When it became clear that they could go no further without risking falling off the precarious bridge, Grimnir planted his feet firmly, raised the Staff, and willed it to obey.

The Staff responded—an arc of green energy, too slow to be lightning, but too quick to be fire, radiated outwards from its spherical orb, directly for the ward. The effect was immediate—a shockwave expanded from the point of contact of the ward, and raced all along its length.

But Grimnir did not let up. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the Staff back, commanding it to take all the power of the ward into itself. The two artifacts—the Staff, and its Eye—possessed like energies, and he hoped that would be enough.

It was—the ward was beginning to swirl in a different direction; instead of circling the College, now it was circling the Staff. What was more, it was beginning to grow smaller. Like a great maelstrom, the energy was sucked in.

And then suddenly, their way was clear. Grimnir wasted no time sprinting for the Hall of the Elements. His three friends followed right behind him—and Tolfdir and Faralda weren't far behind.

* * *

Grimnir kicked open the door to the main hall to find a most eerie sight.

Ancano stood before them, suspended in midair between the mages and and the Eye of Magnus—exactly which of them was glowing more was hard to tell; the mad Thalmor must have absorbed a tremendous amount of power from the artifact. His white hair, normally impeccably tidy was blowing every which way, though there was no wind to be felt in the Hall.

Before him, the gates that normally barred the way to the lecture hall had been torn off their hinges, and twisted asunder like dough in the wake of the Eye's—_Ancano's_—power.

"You've come for me, have you?" Even the hated voice of the Altmer had changed—there was an echo to it now, as though he was speaking inside a massive cave. Now that Grimnir was closer to him, he could see the insane elf's eyes glowing—whether with yet more power, or with glee at achieving said power, was impossible to tell.

"You think I don't know what you're up to?" Ancano screamed at them. "You think I can't destroy you, _speck?!_" He gestured at the Eye behind them, and Grimnir noticed how quickly it was spinning on its plinth; it was a wonder how the artifact had not fallen off from the sheer momentum of its movement.

"The power to unmake the world at my fingertips," Ancano continued gloating, "_and you think you can do anything about it?!_"

Grimnir had heard enough. He strode forward, and took a massive breath.

"_Fus … Ro DAH!_"

The ancient magic of the _Thu'um_ burst from his lips like thunder, and a blue wave of energy rushed right for Ancano—

—and passed right through him.

_What?_

"Ha! I am beyond your pitiful attempts at magic!" Ancano crowed, sneering at them from on high. "You cannot touch me!"

Now, Grimnir was worried. "Pitiful attempts at magic" were not the first words he'd have used to describe the Voice—the same Voice that the dragons could use to breathe fire and frost, and bend the winds to their command. But if they hadn't affected Ancano in the slightest, perhaps his boasting hadn't all been just talk.

Then a thought occurred to him—and he heard the words of the Augur of Dunlain, the recluse of the deepest, darkest depths of the Midden: _To see through Magnus' Eye without being blinded, you require his Staff._

Grimnir looked at the Staff of Magnus in his hand, then back to the Eye. _Could it really be that simple?_

He motioned to everyone behind him—his friends, his instructors, everyone who'd followed him inside to witness this fated confrontation. "Keep him busy," he said in an undertone to J'zargo, who was nearest him, and he hoped that the Khajiit had enough sense to pass it on to everyone else.

"I have a plan," he lied, more to himself than to anyone else, to help boost his bravado.

And without any further ado, Grimnir charged off to the side, running the length of the Hall, away from Ancano, but never once leaving the Eye out of his gaze. He heard the sounds of lightning, fire, ice and the battle cries of half a dozen races as everyone else met Ancano head-on.

"_Enough!_" Ancano roared, and his hands now glowed green. His mouth opened in an unearthly scream as a wave of emerald energy rippled out from his body. Grimnir felt the telltale sensations of a paralysis spell at the same time he saw everyone in the hall thrown backward from Ancano, unable to move even a finger.

And yet Grimnir had not been affected. Had the power of the Staff been protecting him in some way? Or had Ancano spared him, perhaps in hopes to finish him off himself? Either way, he would have to puzzle about it later—the Thalmor was making a beeline right for him, flying for Grimnir as if he had wings.

"Still you persist?" hissed the elf. "Very well. Come then—see what I can do now!"

He raised his hand, and it glowed with the energy of the Eye of Magnus—but Ancano did not fire that energy right at Grimnir.

He fired it at the Eye.

And now the Eye was changing in response to this energy, twisting into dozens of curved metal plates, revealing it to be completely hollow inside. The light of the magicka shining from within was blinding.

_Blinding_.

The words of the Augur came to him again, and Grimnir remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He made a ward with his free hand—knowing full well it might as well be tissue paper against the Thalmor's power—but he pointed the Staff at the Eye—and fired, hoping against hope that the Eye would recognize its own energy.

BANG.

Another shockwave burst from the Eye, throwing Grimnir off balance and sending Ancano tumbling to the ground. Now the Eye was closing—and what was more, the glow around Ancano had disappeared. Instinctively, Grimnir knew he was vulnerable—but he had to strike now.

But even without his link to ultimate power, Ancano was still a formidable foe … and he was livid. "No … what have you done!" screeched the Thalmor as he ran up to the deactivated artifact—and then he rounded on Grimnir.

"Nord beast!" he growled at him—though Ancano no longer sounded like the elf he was, either. "I should have come for you personally at Labyrinthian! I should have killed you and that dragon priest then and there!"

"You had your chance!" Grimnir roared back at him, and he struck Ancano with the Staff of Magnus, right at the traitor elf's head, sending him flying right as he'd been about to charge another spell at the Eye to reactivate it—and then he struck him again, this time in the stomach, crumpling the Thalmor into a heap before his feet.

In spite of the severity of the situation, Grimnir felt some of that old Nord bravado returning, and as he raised his staff aloft, he used the opportunity to get a word in edgewise before the final blow was struck.

"Ancano, you are dismissed from the College!"

The Staff glowed with energy, and directed it towards the jagged crystal at its other end. Ancano had just enough sense to realize what Grimnir was trying to do, and cried out in sudden terror. "No. No!"

And then Grimnir brought the staff down on the Altmer, the magic-enhanced crystal piercing Ancano's heart with all the finesse of a sword blade. Ancano screamed and blubbered as blood began to flow from his mouth, his nose, and even his skin as the energy raced through his body, destroying it piecemeal and withering it to a dried husk.

Only when the screaming had stopped did Grimnir pull the Staff out of Ancano's destroyed body. The fallen Altmer lay there in a circle of his own blood, his scarlet-stained mouth frozen in a look of abject horror.

But amazingly, the Altmer was not dead—and he was laughing. "You should have … left me alive," croaked Ancano, his bloodied mouth curving into a smirk as he cackled weakly. "I could … not stop—could have … saved you … "

Grimnir was confused. "Saved me from what?" he asked, wondering why in the world a Thalmor, of all people, would have this change of heart so quickly. Death had a funny way of showing people their true colors, but even this was unexpected. What was he playing at?

Ancano spat out a wad of bloody phlegm. "Look … at … me," he choked out, so softly that Grimnir had to bend over at what he was saying.

The Altmer inclined his head only slightly, positioning his mouth to where it was level with Grimnir's ear, and spoke three words.

"Beware … the … grub … "

Then the Altmer fell back with a final sigh, and lay still.

Grimnir sat there for a long time, puzzling over the last words of the traitorous elf … and wondering more and more if the Thalmor had actually been a traitor.

What had been Ancano's purpose here? When Grimnir had first met him, he'd had enough experience with the Thalmor that he believed the elf had been a plant, someone to reveal the secrets of a place like the College of Winterhold. When Ancano had revealed his true colors, Grimnir had then believed he'd known about the Eye of Magnus from the beginning, and had been ordered to secure its power by any means necessary.

And yet … had Ancano simply wanted this power for himself? Or had something gone horribly wrong? And then there had been his strange choice of last words ... _beware the grub_.

Grimnir started—he'd suddenly heard footsteps. Ancano's paralysis spell must have worn off, because everyone was now rushing to his side, Tolfdir in the lead.

"It's done," Grimnir told them. "The College is safe."

Tolfdir beamed at him. "Well done, my lad—I knew you could do it!" he sighed in relief—but this was short lived. The old wizard was staring at the Eye with an increasing sense of worry, and with good reason, Grimnir thought: whatever Ancano had done to the Eye to get its power wasn't showing any signs of stopping—in fact, it almost seemed to be spinning even faster.

"What do we do now?" Grimnir asked.

Tolfdir was lost for words, clearly unsure where to go from here. Grimnir looked at the Staff of Magnus again, and knew what he had to do.

"Clear the Hall, Tolfdir—get everyone out of here," Grimnir said, feeling the fires of determination blaze in his eyes again. "Maybe I can use the Staff on this. I can try to stabilize it—maybe even slow the damage a little."

Tolfdir gaped at him. "The backlash from an energy source of this size could destroy you _and_ the Staff!" he cried. "I'm all for heroics, my boy, but you'd be throwing you're life away for nothing!"

"He's right," said a new voice—one that Grimnir had only heard once before, and a feeling of uneasiness crept into his spine as he turned around to find the source.

Quaranir—the Psijic monk who had spoken to him once before, told him of the Augur and the knowledge he possessed, had appeared seemingly out of thin air, and without any noise at all. And he was not alone—three others had appeared with him, all of them Psijics—including one who Grimnir faintly recognized; this one had first spoken to him in Saarthal, and again in Mzulft.

"Now what's going on?!" Tolfdir was open-mouthed in shock. "Psijics? Here?! What in Talos' name—?"

He quailed beneath the magisterial look that one of the monks gave him—even though there was no malice in it.

"The Eye has grown too unstable for your efforts to contain," Quaranir continued. "It cannot remain here, else it may destroy your College, and this world with it. But rest assured, we will make sure that does not come to pass."

"We knew you would succeed," said the monk Grimnir had seen at Saarthal. "Make of it what you will, but your victory here justifies our belief in you. You have proven yourself more than worthy to guide this College."

Grimnir stopped. What had he just said? _Guide the College of Winterhold? He couldn't mean—!_

"You may now carry on with your lives," Quaranir was now addressing the others. "We will safeguard the Eye of Magnus, until such a time that the world is ready for its power. Ancano's actions have proven that that time has not yet come."

He turned to Grimnir, and all of a sudden Grimnir could feel the eyes of close on to a dozen people trained on him. "You have our gratitude … Arch-Mage," Quaranir said, with a little smile.

_Arch-Mage … Me?_ Grimnir's head was spinning.

"It is only fitting," the Saarthal Psijic said, wearing the same gentle smile as Quaranir, "that the Dragonborn should be the one to lead this College. Whether you know it or not, your actions as Dragonborn have already inspired many people across Tamriel—and by taking the mantle of Archmagus, you stand ready to make a more profound change on not only Skyrim, but the rest of the world."

That interrupted the storm in Grimnir's head. Of course the Psijics would know of him—the rest of Skyrim certainly knew, after all, so why not an ancient order of the Summerset Isle?

The Psijics, meanwhile, had turned their attention to the Eye of Magnus. Their hands were brimming with light, and spellwork that Grimnir could not recognize. They were about to leave, he knew—and they would take the Eye with them.

_Beware the grub._

Something stirred in his chest then, a sense of curiosity, as if he'd found one of those tombstones the Nords of old had raised to honor the dead, scored with the words of dragons, and the magic behind them—his source for power.

The Psijics raised their glowing hands—the opportunity might never come again—

"Wait."

The word had come unbidden, almost against his will. But the Psijics heard, and Quaranir turned in his direction, though he still kept his hands concentrated on whatever he was doing.

"The Thalmor, Ancano—before he died, he said something to me," he said. "All he said was 'Beware the grub,'—and that he could have stopped it. Do you have any idea what he might have been talking about?"

Tolfdir looked even more confused than ever at this turn of events. Quaranir, however, was silent for much longer than Grimnir expected a Psijic monk to be. "We are … unsure," he said eventually. "Perhaps you could search his quarters for any useful information? You do have that authority now, after all."

"But do not delay in your search," cautioned another Psijic, nodding towards the Eye. "We cannot remain here for very long."

Grimnir frowned. He wasn't ready to call himself the Arch-Mage just yet. Something else was at work here—something that Ancano had deemed necessary to warn him about himself. And if even the Psijic Order didn't know about it, that was immediate cause for concern.

_Something was wrong here_.

"All right," Grimnir said, brushing off his tan novice's robes. "I'll search his quarters—I'll report back if I find anything. Tolfdir, Faralda, can you come with me?"

"Certainly, Arch-Mage," Tolfdir responded, chuckling a little.

"Don't call me that just yet, _sir_," Grimnir told him, briefly smiling back as he emphasized the word. "Something's bothering me about this—not least of it is that Ancano might have something waiting for me when I get there."

Tolfdir looked thoughtful at this, but eventually nodded when he understood Grimnir's point.

"What about us?" J'zargo had stepped forward, looking hopeful. Brelyna and Onmund had remained some distance behind him, but the same expression could not have been more evident if it had been plastered on their faces.

And considering all they'd been through, Grimnir couldn't say no—not completely. "This is something I have to do alone … for now," he added, raising his hands to stave off any dissent. "You three have been a big help for me in all this, so I promise you that if I find anything, you'll be the first to know."

The three mages beamed back at this, and with a jaunty, two-fingered salute, Grimnir strode out of the Hall of Elements, with Tolfdir and Faralda in his wake.

* * *

Deep inside a cave, on the other side of the world, something formless and primal moved in the shadows. Its hideous mouth spoke arcane words of a language known only to itself, inaudible amongst the din of the waves breaking upon the rough rocks of the shoreline outside, as its repulsive hands began to gather blasphemous magic …


	2. I

I

Grimnir had good reason to be suspicious of Ancano as he headed up to the deceased elf's quarters in the Hall of Attainment: this was not the first time that the Thalmor agent had attempted to kill him. Only a day ago, in the bowels of Labyrinthian, another agent under Ancano's command had intercepted Grimnir and the others, and told him in no uncertain terms that Ancano wanted the Staff of Magnus in his possession—and them all dead.

The Dragonborn had killed him before he was able to finish his ultimatum.

"That was his room, right there," Tolfdir suddenly spoke up as they reached the end of the staircase. He was pointing at one of the beds off to the right.

There were no doors for the bedrooms here, merely a series of curtains for privacy. This was a fact that several students had pointed out in the past; Mirabelle had fiercely maintained that this apparent lack of security was actually a means of discipline. Curtains betrayed much more noise than doors, preventing the overly ambitious from creating anything illicit inside their bedroom—or the overly _adventurous_ from conducting any torrid trysts.

As he drew back the curtain, however, and beheld the space beyond, Grimnir's first, immediate thought was that Ancano would never divulge in either of these things—at least not in a public space like this. The bedroom was absolutely spotless; the bed was made, with no wrinkles in the sheets at all. The desk looked freshly dusted, with an inkpot and three quills lying in one corner, across from a few sheaves of fresh parchment. And finally, the bookcase—filled with quite a few more books than most students cared to peruse—was as neat and orderly a one as Grimnir had ever seen. He thought old Urag down in the Arcaneum might even shed a tear if he could see the pristine state of these books and shelves.

To the outsider, nothing here looked as though it had ever been used. However, even this cursory glance told Grimnir that not only had this space been occupied in the past, but that great care had been taken to keep people from thinking that this room had once housed a Thalmor agent—either that, Grimnir thought, or Ancano was obsessively neat and clean in every respect. That was something he wouldn't put past any high elf—let alone _him_.

He studied the alcove with scrutiny. It didn't look as though Ancano had placed any sort of rune anywhere inside—another reason, Mirabelle had said, why these rooms used curtains over doors. It was much harder to place a rune on a soft, undulating surface than a rigid, unmoving one. But that was beside the point, as more often than not, runes had a tendency to stick out like sore thumbs to anyone who was looking for them, and Grimnir had been through enough Nordic tombs that he'd committed them all to memory.

"Certainly looks clean enough," Faralda remarked from alongside him. The Altmer instructor's normally amber eyes were faintly glowing pale blue: a scrye of some sort, he imagined, possibly a clairvoyance spell. "I don't think he expected us to search his lodgings at all."

Tolfdir didn't look so optimistic. "Or he did," he murmured, "and he's already disposed of anything that could connect him to Savos' death—and all that happened with it."

"No, Tolfdir," said Grimnir. "Ancano wouldn't go through all that trouble of telling me about this so-called 'grub' if that was the case. There's something in here," he said resolutely, "something we might even be able to use as evidence. I don't know what it is we're supposed to be looking for, but I'd stake my name on it."

Tolfdir coughed. "Then, if it isn't too much trouble," he said, "might Faralda and I return to the lecture hall? No doubt the rest of the student body needs to be calmed down after recent events."

Grimnir didn't see why not—he'd merely asked the two instructors to accompany him in the event Ancano had one more nasty surprise in store for him. And since Faralda and her scrye had judged the room clean of any runes or traps, there wasn't really any need for them to be around anymore.

He nodded to them. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll join you once I'm finished here. I don't think I'll be more than a few minutes, anyway," he added, staring at the surgically clean room.

The two mages nodded, and left Grimnir to his own devices.

Once he heard their footfalls on the stairs subside, Grimnir crossed over to the bookcase, inspecting the titles closely. Nothing he found, however, jumped out at him: _The Black Arts on Trial_ … _Rising Threat: The Complete Series … N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis! …_

Grimnir frowned as he picked up the last one, purely out of curiosity. But his heart sank as soon as his eyes fell on the first page—he had no idea what language that particular book was written in. It was worse than useless to him.

Next, he decided to look at the desk. The quills were laid out with their tips facing to the right. None of them looked as if they'd been used at all. Grimnir took one carefully, and peered at the tip. It was useless, though—whether they really hadn't been used, or had simply been wiped clean of ink, his eyes could not tell.

He grimaced. Detective work was not something he was used to doing—jobs like those, he thought, ought to be left to the professionals.

Grimnir moved on to the inkwell, again out of a passing sense of interest—and was promptly surprised at how _light_ it felt in his hand when he tried to shake it. On impulse, he uncorked the bottle, and noticed that there was only a small amount of ink inside—less than half full, he guessed.

His uncertainty had suddenly vanished on the spot. So Ancano had indeed been inside this place, and had been using it. The cleanliness was just a front, Grimnir knew now—just like that half-empty inkwell. But …

He sighed. "What were you doing in here?" he murmured, half to himself.

Of course, the initial answer was obvious: he'd been writing something—which meant Grimnir ought to check the drawers under the desk. He did so—but saw nothing save for more rolls of yellowed parchment. But he was not fazed—a sixth sense of had gone off in Grimnir's head; he was on to something now, and he would not stop until he'd found what—

_Wait_.

Grimnir had been clearing out some of the stray parchment in the drawer when he saw it—the end of a small, sealed scroll, tucked surreptitiously within the frayed pieces of paper. The wax on the scroll was embossed with a seal he had not seen before—but it was the marking under the seal that caught his attention.

It was a highly stylized letter _A_.

_Ancano_.

Grimnir grinned. _Now_ he'd found something.

He slit the letter open with a single finger, not even bothering to look for any signs of spellwork or tampering. The writing inside the scroll was incredibly flowing, but legible enough that Grimnir could make it out:

_M'Alga has finally agreed to cooperate with us. You may proceed to the next phase of your assignment at your earliest convenience._

_However, this novice you speak of may present a threat if he is not dealt with quickly. Do not make your move until you are certain he will not impede your progress. My sources tell me he has crossed us before, and already has inside knowledge of our procedures; therefore, should he intervene, terminate him with extreme prejudice._

_This will be my final letter. I will know from here on in whether you are successful or not._

_\- C_

Grimnir pocketed the letter, now more confused than ever. The only thing this seemed to tell him was that he had a fair idea of who this "novice" might be—but more importantly, that Ancano had indeed been acting on the orders of the Thalmor. It wasn't explicitly stated, of course; whoever this "C" was had attempted to be as secure as possible. But the tone of the letter was unmistakable.

And he had a name as well: _M'Alga_. Even this, however, didn't seem to help. Grimnir thought it might be a Khajiit name—he would have to check with J'zargo about that. But it would make sense; Elsweyr, the arid province of southern Tamriel where the Khajiiti people hailed from, was considered part of the Aldmeri Dominion. And the Thalmor had used Khajiit to do their dirty work before—indeed, they'd sent one to kill Grimnir not long after he'd broken into their embassy two years ago.

Other than that, he had nothing. He started on his way down, thinking he should tell Quaranir about what he'd found—

—only to leap back in surprise when he saw J'zargo on the other side of the door. The Khajiit's arms were crossed, his tail was swishing madly, and the grin on his mustachioed face told him he'd found a very juicy tidbit of information.

"How long have you been standing there?!" Grimnir cried out, holding a hand over his racing heart, trying to calm himself down.

Behind him, Onmund and Brelyna looked guilty as they shuffled their feet on the stone floor. "Sorry, Arch-Mage," Onmund eventually spoke up. "We … tried to stop him."

Grimnir shook his head in exasperation—not only because the position of Arch-Mage hadn't yet been set in stone, but also because in hindsight, he really should have seen this coming. It was often said about the Khajiit that once they sniffed out an opportunity, they would go to any length to attain it.

It was also said that the only thing more dangerous and unpredictable than a clever Khajiit, or a clever mage, was a _Khajiiti_ mage, and in the short time he'd known him, Grimnir had seen J'zargo use both his wits and his magic in equal measure to become one of the most accomplished novices here at the College so far.

"I didn't find much anyway," Grimnir conceded, waving the note in front of them. He told them about what little he gathered, about the one name within the anonymous letter.

Predictably, J'zargo looked the most thoughtful mage present. "M'Alga … " he mused to himself, stroking his whiskers with a claw.

"We're thinking the same thing, aren't we?" Grimnir asked. "The Thalmor captured a Khajiit, and this Khajiit had something to do with the Eye of Magnus?"

J'zargo sighed, which made his impressive mustache flutter. "If this is a Khajiit, J'zargo does not recognize such a name," he muttered, but he grinned. "Although he would certainly love to find out. Another like Khajiit, who knew of the Eye's power—can you imagine?"

"I'm trying not to," Brelyna said alongside him with a wry grin. "That's a scary thought, and no mistake."

Onmund stifled a chuckle, and Grimnir couldn't help but join in. "Go ahead and jest," Grimnir said, "but this could be the difference between the Psijics possessing the Eye of Magnus—or the Thalmor _repossessing_ it."

He strode out of the dormitories, and towards the Hall of the Elements. "We should find Quaranir," he said, "tell him what we found."

* * *

Not much had changed in the ten minutes since the four mages had left the Hall of the Elements, and reentered it once more. The Eye of Magnus was still dangerously spinning, with three of the Psijic monks apparently concentrated on keeping it in one piece.

Quaranir, however, was overseeing them, and so deep was he in his duty that Grimnir had to tap his shoulder to get his attention. The high elf turned around, not showing an ounce of surprise—in fact, his frown only looked deeper.

"You found something." It was not a question.

Without a word, Grimnir showed him the letter he had found in Ancano's desk drawer. Quaranir hardly seemed to glance at it before pocketing it for himself. But Grimnir could tell that the Altmer had gleaned something from this, judging by the way he narrowed his eyes—and he did not look happy about it.

"As to the name, I am … unsure," Quaranir told them. "However, I can tell you who sent that letter: Celeralmo."

J'zargo shrank back. Brelyna grimaced. Onmund, however, looked confused—and Grimnir imagined he had a similar look on his own face. "You say that like I should know who he is," he said.

"Considering the dealings you've had with the Thalmor, you would do well," Quaranir said, a warning edge to his voice. "Celeralmo is the High Justiciar of the Dominion—you might call him the Thalmor's _head of state_."

_High Justiciar? Head of state?_ Now Grimnir was uneasy.

"If Ancano was acting under the orders of Celeralmo, as this letter suggests," Quaranir went on, "then there are greater forces at work here. Especially since Ancano's orders included silencing you."

"What I want to know is the name," Grimnir said. "M'Alga. Do you know who it is? What can you tell me?"

Quaranir shook his head. "Only that he or she seems to be affiliated with the Thalmor. Whether or not of their own free will, I cannot say."

"This one thinks this M'Alga may be another Khajiit," J'zargo piped up hopefully.

"You may be right," Quaranir said with a shrug, and J'zargo's whiskers rose despite the less-than-hopeful tone in the Psijic's voice. "I cannot help you here. You will have to pursue this line of questioning alone, I'm afraid."

Grimnir felt his heart sinking. If a member of the Psijic Order did not know, then who could?

The solution came to him like a bolt from the blue. _Of course!_ "Wait!" he called out.

Quaranir was about to turn back towards the fluctuating Eye when Grimnir spoke up. "Maybe you can't tell us who this M'Alga is," Grimnir said. "But could you point us in the direction of someone who can?"

Quaranir considered this. "If you're suggesting the person I think you are," he eventually replied, "I could do more than point you—I could take you to him." His brow furrowed. "But first—other matters must be attended to."

He turned back towards the three Psijics, slowly nodding to each one in turn. Each one nodded back. "It is time for them to go," Quaranir told them. "The Order will not forget what you have done for us today, Arch-Mage."

And even before the last word had fallen from his lips, the three monks had begun to fade from sight, shimmering and distorting into clouds of multicolored light. Then the Eye began to glow and swirl around its center, and finally to shrink. In a matter of seconds, it was gone—vanished as though it, and the Psijics attending it, had never existed.

Grimnir, despite the present situation, felt a breath escape from his lungs that he forgot he'd been holding. The Eye of Magnus was gone. The College, Skyrim, and the world beyond, was safe.

"And now," Quaranir continued, "we will address matters elsewhere." He stepped back from Grimnir. "Arch-Mage, if you would please stand still. This spell is useful in situations like these—but some would argue that it is not worth the … _discomfort_."

Grimnir ignored the fact that he'd been addressed the way he had. "Discomfort?" he yelped—and then he understood. "You're not going to send me away, too, are you?"

"Are you versed in the art of long-distance teleportation?" Quaranir asked.

Wordlessly, Grimnir shook his head, confused beyond belief.

"Then I am doing no such thing. _This_ spell, however, is much more reliable for what we must do," said the Psijic. His hands were beginning to glow with blue flame.

Before he could even think to bring up a ward, that blue flame was launched right for Grimnir. He felt a burst of blinding light, a _wrenching_ sensation inside every part of his body at the same time, and then a feeling of infinite speed …

* * *

_Alinor_

It had often been said that the capital city of the Thalmor government was a reflection of its populace. The description was as literal as it was metaphorical: every last building—from the simple trading stalls in the marketplaces below, to the impossibly tall spires that soared hundreds of feet into the air, had been fashioned with the same purity of form.

There were neither corners nor straight lines in Altmer architecture; to the high elves, these were seen as impure and unnatural. The insectoid spires of the city did not simply sprout from the ground like new shoots of trees; rather, they _became_ one with the land—they would begin flush with the ground, and then swoop to the heights at a near-vertical climb. The combination of malachite, quicksilver, and moonstone that made up most of these buildings—along with several other trade secrets known only to the Altmer—would collect every last spark of sunlight, and split it into its component colors, where they would spread in a display of beauty that outsiders found hypnotic.

Celeralmo I saw all this from his seat on the highest level of the highest tower of Alinor, and knew that it was good … and knew that it was pure.

The Highest and Most Eminent Justiciar of the Third Aldmeri Dominion sipped at a crystalline goblet of thick yellowish fluid—the distilled nectar of the Isgareth bees of Auridon. This insect had been found all over the Summerset Isle in the First Era, and was prized among the Altmeri for its nectar, which was said to greatly extend the life of its imbiber to the point of immortality—for as long as it remained inside the body.

This did not escape the notice of Man, unfortunately. They had been tempted by the legend, and they had come to Auridon to take its secret for themselves, and distribute it to the rest of the world … for a price. And as a result, the Isgareth bee had been hunted to extinction—or so Man had thought. The Altmer nobility had managed to retain a hive, and transplant it to Alinor where it would be safe from the taint of Man.

As he felt the warm nectar trickle down his throat, Celeralmo cursed the men of Tamriel for their arrogance. The secrets of the Isgareth bee had been out of their reach from the beginning—did they not see this? The lesser races were simply not meant to possess such a secret; they had drawn their lot in life, and if they had any purpose in life, it was to live the lot they were given, and no more.

But trust the nature of Man, to be content with his lot in life! Celeralmo thought bitingly. He sniffed haughtily at the notion, tossing aside a lock of long white hair … and yet, he mused, there was something paradoxical about the relationship between purity and impurity. There was no excuse for not keeping with purity, to be sure. In the olden times, it had not been uncommon for families to cull their own children, in order to maintain that elven purity. Rumors persisted the practice still existed today, behind the closed doors of the highest elven nobility.

They would never admit such things out loud, of course. Nevertheless, a part of Celeralmo—almost damnably—was grateful his line did not count itself among those special few. His eyes were so rare among the Altmer as to be nearly unique; he had never met another Altmer with eyes the same shade of sky blue as his. They had once been the subject of controversy among Celeralmo's many detractors saying that they made him look more like a Nord beast than a proper Altmer, and that if his family had had a grain of sense, they ought to have culled him from birth.

The insult had stung, but Celeralmo had quickly demonstrated that there was more to power than purity of blood. Within three days, his opposition had vanished under mysterious circumstances—and Celeralmo was unopposed to claim the post that he held to this day, almost two human lifetimes since he'd helped to secure the Summerset Isle for the Thalmor.

He smiled. Everything was as it should be.

Pure.

And then the room exploded in blue fire.

Celeralmo knew enough about teleportation spells to recognize their appearance, but he was still rattled nonetheless, and more than a little angry. It was considered very impolite to teleport into someone's dwelling without first calling ahead, for the love of Auriel—it must have been an outsider, he thought, and one who was new to his court at that; otherwise he would have received some request of audience before this.

Then the harmless blue flame dissipated, and Celeralmo saw the figure that had appeared within the center of his circular office—or at least, his translucent shade; this was no teleportation, he knew—merely a form of astral projection. No less difficult, but no more useful than actual teleportation.

The figure spoke. "Am I speaking to the High Justiciar Celeralmo?"

Celeralmo's nostrils flickered in irritation; he'd never visited the mainland of Tamriel save for the outlying port cities of Valenwood and Elsweyr, and even then he preferred to remain on his vessel, and allow whoever or whatever he needed to come to _him_ instead of the other way around. But Celeralmo knew a Nordic brogue when he heard one, and immediately he was on edge.

Especially since he recognized the robes that the bluish shade of the Nord was wearing.

_Ancano must have failed, then_, he thought with another irritated sniff. This day was fast looking to be a bad one.

"Do you have an appointment?" Celeralmo asked, finally standing up from his desk, concealing the distaste for the shade of the Nord in front of him.

"I should have sent one on ahead," said the Nord, frowning. "Did it not get through to you?"

Celeralmo was just about to prepare a spell to send this blasted shade back to whence he came—and then a knock sounded on his door.

"Who is it?" he barked.

"A request of audience, Your Eminence," spoke the attendant on the other side of the threshold. "From the College of Winterhold, on behalf of Loremaster Nerien of the Psijic Order."

_Psijics?_ Now Celeralmo was uneasy. The Psijics were a mysterious order of monks, considered by many Thalmor to be a rogue organization, to the point of illegality. Celeralmo was no exception, but he knew his history—and he knew that if the Psijic Order had become directly involved in any matter whatsoever, then it was not to be ignored.

"Very well," he sighed, holding in his response for as long as his dignity would allow him. "You may speak."

"My apologies for the lapse in communication," said the Nord mage. "I had prepared the request as a formality—first impressions and all that. But the Psijic Order insisted time was of the essence, and that I ought speak directly with the leader of the Thalmor."

Celeralmo narrowed his blue eyes. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but it almost looked as though the Nord was grinning at him. He sensed that the Psijics had done this deliberately, to toy with him—and cursed the monks for their arrogance.

The Altmer pretended to take a long draught of Isgareth nectar to hide the sneer on his face, before he replied. "Well, you speak to him now, Arch-Mage of Winterhold," he said irritably. "What was it you wanted to discuss?"

The Nord cleared his throat—a noise that made Celeralmo wince. "Before we move on to that topic, I believe introductions are in order. My name is Grimnir Torn-Skull—"

Celeralmo had chosen that moment to take an actual drink of nectar, and only his Altmer sense of propriety had kept him from spitting it out on his desk then and there. _Grimnir Torn-Skull?!_ Multiple Thalmor had mentioned that name before—up to and including the First Emissary of Skyrim! Celeralmo remembered the missive Elenwen had sent to him barely two years ago regarding the infiltration of the Thalmor's embassy in Skyrim; he'd never believed she could be that angry in all the years he'd known her. This man was dangerous, perhaps _the_ most dangerous in all of Tamriel—it certainly explained why Elenwen seemed to burn through death squads on a regular basis.

An agent of the Blades, and add to it, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold … Celeralmo had the uneasy notion that this was starting to look less and less like a social call. But still, he stiffened, exhaled, and released all his anxiety out of him—Grimnir was still talking, and Celeralmo had to at least _pretend_ to look attentive to the concerns of a Nord.

"—Arch-Mage Aren was killed in the ensuing explosion," Grimnir went on, "and I was elected to succeed him after the situation had been resolved."

"Did you clear the decision with his advisor?" Celeralmo asked. "I assume Ancano survived this … explosion." _If not whatever came after_, he thought, gritting his teeth.

"Ancano is dead." Celeralmo knew the news was coming—yet Grimnir said the three words as if killing a Thalmor agent was nothing special. That enraged him even more, but the elf knew he had to keep it together.

"The Psijic Order endorsed my promotion," Grimnir went on, "but ultimately I left the decision to the senior staff of the College." He smiled. "The decision was unanimous."

Celeralmo swore under his breath again.

"Naturally, I took it upon myself to examine Ancano's quarters for anything that might explain his rationale," Grimnir went on. "Thus far, my search has been … unsuccessful. I did, however, find a letter mentioning the name M'Alga. The Psijics are unsure of what this could mean, but my associates believe he may be a Khajiit affiliated with the Thalmor, who may possess some knowledge of the Eye of Magnus. That was why I requested an audience with you, Your Eminence—I wanted to confirm for myself whether our hypothesis was true."

Celeralmo listened to this with a growing sense of amusement. That this Grimnir had intercepted at least one of his letters to Ancano was irritating, but not overly so. As far as the elf was concerned, the College of Winterhold's so-called hypothesis could not be further from the truth—it was almost laughable that they had come to that particular conclusion. A Khajiit who could comprehend the energies of Magnus himself—that was even more so!

Even the Psijics were in the dark as well—for Celeralmo, that was the best news he'd heard all day.

He held up a finger to indicate he needed one moment, then crossed over to a nearby bookcase and produced a massive tome after several seconds of searching—he didn't care to look at the title. Celeralmo made a show of leafing through the thousand or more pages of the book before he finally put it down, and heaved a theatrical sigh.

"I'm deeply sorry to have to tell you this," the elf eventually said to Grimnir, doing his absolute best to maintain his composure, "but I'm afraid you've gone to all this trouble for naught. As far as I know, there is no Khajiit by that name. The book you saw me with was the last census we conducted for the province of Elsweyr—and the name M'Alga did not appear a single time."

The smile had faded from Grimnir's face. "Double-check," he said shortly. "Look through previous censuses, throughout all of Tamriel if you must. This Khajiit, whoever he or she may be, could have information that may dictate the future of Nirn. I would be grateful if such a personage was found."

Celeralmo drew himself up to his full height. "Do you deny the records of the Thalmor?" he said dangerously.

"No," Grimnir responded, entirely unabashed. "I merely want your assurance that this matter will not go uninvestigated. After all, the Thalmor have just as much at stake in Nirn as the rest of its people. An oversight of this magnitude could have devastating consequences for us all."

_If you only knew_, Celeralmo thought.

"I'll be leaving now," said Grimnir. "From one leader to another, settling into a new post can take quite a while. I'm afraid it hasn't sunk in for me just yet." He gave a chuckle that the elf did not return.

" … Yes, well," coughed Celeralmo, "I will contact my associates in Valenwood and Elsweyr. Perhaps they might be more knowledgeable to your little problem. I will come back to you once I have more credible information," he added, thinking privately that it would be a dark day indeed before he saw the shade of this distasteful man again.

"Thank you, Your Eminence." Grimnir gave a small little bow. Then there was another burst of blue fire, and he had gone, leaving behind a Celeralmo who wasn't entirely sure how he should be feeling at this point.

"Melanwe!" he called out.

The Altmer from behind the door stepped in—a stately maiden with elegantly cropped hair. "Yes, Your Eminence?"

"Contact the Harbormaster at once. Inform him we are placing an embargo on all trade until further notice."

"The mainland of Tamriel, sir?" Melanwe was already scribbling on a sheaf of parchment.

"_Everywhere_," Celeralmo hissed. "The Psijic Order is already sniffing around. They know something is not right—and the College is privy to them now. We must keep them out … and more importantly, we must keep _him_ in _line_."

Melanwe scurried out of his office to do his bidding, leaving Celeralmo to stew in his own emotions.

* * *

"That was … less than informative," Grimnir said the next morning in the Arcaneum. Quaranir had stayed only long enough to listen to what Celeralmo had told him, and then departed without a word—or a sound, or indeed any trace of where he'd teleported to. As for Grimnir, he had wasted no time in breaking in his new quarters; the nausea from the Psijic's astral projection spell had only worn off to a more manageable level when he'd fallen asleep, and only just now had he felt up to standing on his own two feet.

"But I'm almost certain Celeralmo is hiding something," continued Grimnir, while Faralda and Tolfdir listened to him. Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo were idling around the library; J'zargo was immersed in a dog-eared tome and chuckling to himself every now and again. "I'm speaking from experience here, Tolfdir: something is wrong."

"Oh, I believe you, Arch-Mage," the new Master Wizard of Winterhold said as he twiddled his thumbs. "I just have to wonder if maybe you've gotten the whole story. The truth is only as true as its source, you know."

Grimnir considered this. "Then maybe I should ask around. Surely someone at the College had some kind of contact with Ancano—even if it was minimal." He turned to the Altmer. "Faralda, what were your thoughts?"

"On Ancano?" The instructor of destruction looked annoyed as she repeated the name. "He never warmed up to me much. I'm just as much a high elf as he is—but I doubt he ever had the same thought."

Tolfdir snorted—a rare sound to hear from the normally kindly old Nord. "I can see that," he grumbled. "He never seemed to have a care for anything we were doing here—even if it concerned the Eye, of all things!"

Grimnir had remembered Ancano barging in on that lesson Tolfdir had given about the Eye, and doubted the old wizard would ever forgive the Thalmor for interrupting him in such a manner.

"I never really liked the way he looked at me," Brelyna suddenly chimed in. "I don't know if he expected me to blow myself up—or if I'd try and take him with me in the blast." Her voice suddenly became soft. "But I don't think he trusted any of us … especially with the knowledge of what he was doing."

* * *

Brelyna's statement, unfortunately, proved to set the tone for much of Grimnir's day. Everyone he approached seemed to have nothing at all to offer about Ancano—only that he was a person best avoided unless as a last resort.

"Had a feeling he wasn't what he claimed to be," Sergius Turrianus grumbled at his enchanting apparatus, while Grimnir hovered over his shoulder. "No advisor I know tries to butt in as much as he did. You should have heard the complaints I got from Mirabelle about how he was 'observing the proceedings' … "

* * *

"I only knew he was from the Thalmor," Enthir said in a hushed tone, as though wary Ancano was still alive and ready to spring out at him. "That was enough for me to stay out of his way—elves like me aren't held much more highly than the Nords, as far as they're concerned … "

* * *

Arniel Gane paced about his quarters-turned-laboratory with manic energy. "He kept on asking about my research," the Breton scholar rambled on. "If I hadn't know what he was really up to, I'd have thought the Thalmor were trying to steal my work! I never told him anything, of course," he smirked. "What I'm doing is far too important—can't breathe a word of it to anyone else."

Grimnir grunted—Arniel had been saying that even after he'd roped Grimnir into this project of his. He rose from his seat. "Thanks for your time … and let me know if you've made any progress on your end … "

* * *

By the time Grimnir got the answers he'd been looking for, it was almost nightfall, and he'd exhausted almost every available source in the College. He'd spoken to every instructor—save for Drevis; the illusion instructor was always hard to find, and experience with him in the past had told Grimnir that his current whereabouts in Morrowind were to be taken with a grain of salt—as well as every student and scholar he'd come across in the lecture hall and the dormitories.

And so he was quite thoroughly surprised when the last voice he'd expected to hear told him, "I hear you've been asking about Ancano."

Nirya was quite small for an Altmer—though she was still eye-to-eye with Grimnir, and her size belied her conniving, scheming demeanor. She associated with very few students and scholars in the College—a fact that most were completely fine with.

"I suppose you can tell me something about him?" Grimnir grumbled, as he sat down in the Arcaneum, where Nirya had spread her work over a table. It was late, and he was tired; traveling from one end of Tamriel to the other in a matter of seconds, even by astral projection, was not for the faint of constitution—neither, apparently, was incessant interrogation.

Nirya shrugged. "I never trusted him—he always looked like he was up to something. Most of us are, to be fair, but in his case, it wasn't good. What happened with him is exactly why we don't take in just anyone who can cast a few wisps of flame."

She paused, and wet her lip. "He was rather handsome, though—I will give him that much."

Grimnir made a noise that was somewhere between annoyance and disgust. That was _not_ a picture he'd needed to have in his head at this late of an hour.

"I'd hoped I could come clean with him at the Frozen Hearth, the Loredas before Arch-Mage Aren was killed," Nirya went on, eyes misted over. "I found out from reading his schedule that he went there every Loredas for a drink. At least, that's what I thought at the time—but when I got there, I found Ancano talking with … _him_."

Grimnir suddenly perked up. "The Frozen Hearth?" he asked, referring to the inn of Winterhold—one of the few buildlings in Winterhold, save for the College, that was still standing in the wake of the Collapse. "Who was over there that he'd want to talk to?"

Nirya huffed. "Nelacar."

The name didn't sound familiar to Grimnir, and Nirya must have noticed.

"There was an … incident with the College before you came by," she said. Grimnir noticed how low her voice had dropped, and the normally devious Altmer looked quite nervous. "Very unfortunate. No one knows how far Nelacar was involved in it, but he was involved enough to get himself expelled. Now he spends his time at the inn in town—he plies his inferior spellwork to the visitors when he's not drunk himself into a stupor." She sniffed.

Grimnir leaned forward, now very intrigued. "What does Ancano have to do with all this?" he asked.

Nirya looked around conspiratorially, making sure Urag wasn't around—the Orc mage was almost as notorious for his temper as he was for his sense of hearing. "You never heard this from me," she whispered, "but it sounds like the Eye of Magnus was only a side project for Ancano. I overheard him in the Hearth that Loredas asking Nelacar some very … _disturbing_ questions."

_Side project?!_ "About what?"

Nirya was almost nose-to-nose with Grimnir now. "Necromancy."

Grimnir pulled back, now very worried—and equally confused, more than he'd ever been in the past two days. What was a Thalmor doing, dabbling in necromancy? The two seemed about as compatible as oil and water.

He turned to leave for the Frozen Hearth, only barely hearing Nirya call out behind him in a lilting singsong, "Oh—Arch-Mage, may I just say it's a _pleasure_ to have you leading the College? If there's _ever_ anything _more_ I can do for you, please let me know!"

Grimnir could only groan. Maybe going down to the Hearth wouldn't be so bad—if he was honest, he needed a strong mug of mead right about now.

* * *

When Grimnir stepped inside the tavern half an hour later, however, he found a most unusual sight.

The atmosphere of the inn was unusually somber, even with the pretty blond-haired bard near the warm fire, playing a tune on her flute. The reason why was soon apparent: a Nord was at the front counter, sobbing openly into the chest of an Altmer—whom Grimnir assumed must be Nelacar. Both were clearly drunk, though the Nord was more so; at least Nelacar seemed to be capable of cogent speech.

"There, there, Ranmir," he slurred. "Clearly she—_hic_—wasn't worth your time—"

That only made Ranmir more disconsolate, and he turned away from Nelacar—only to tumble off his stool and onto the ground.

The bartender made a noise that suggested this hadn't been the first time it had happened. "Dagur!" she hollered. "Best take him home to Birna. I think he's suffered enough for one night." She threw a nasty look at Nelacar.

After Dagur had hoisted a blubbering Ranmir over his shoulder, and disappeared out of the front door, Nelacar downed something from a tiny vial, and some of the rosiness in his cheeks disappeared as he lifted himself up from his own stool, and back to his room.

He didn't see Grimnir walking up behind him until the Arch-Mage had already crossed the threshold, cornering him completely. Nelacar didn't shout out in surprise, but instead heaved a long-suffering sigh that told Grimnir he wasn't in the mood for idle chitchat.

"If I've told Dagur once, I've told him a hundred times," he grumbled, still a little disorientated from the effects of whatever he'd had to drink. "I don't care who wants to see me, or who they're working for—if they're a mage, I'm not interested in anything they have to say!"

Grimnir stepped forward. "I'm here about Ancano."

That sobered up the Altmer. "Who sent you?" he asked, suddenly wide awake and alert. Then his eyes fell on Grimnir's robes. "Oh, of course," he said sullenly.

He sighed again. "Look, Ancano didn't exactly give me much of a choice in the matter," Nelacar went on. "He threatened to spill my little secret to the Jarl if I didn't cooperate with him."

"Don't beat around the bush with me, Nelacar," Grimnir said bluntly—he'd had enough mystery for one day. "Tell me what you were doing with Ancano, and tell me now, or I won't be held responsible for my actions."

"Like that would change anything," Nelacar countered. He nodded outside. "You saw that Nord when you walked in, did you?"

Grimnir nodded.

"Terrible story," tsked the Altmer. "He was involved with this Breton, name of Isabelle. By all accounts, they had a happy life together—but it did get grating after a while, hearing each tell the other that their love could warm up this miserable place.

"A few days ago, though, Isabelle vanished. No trace, no note, nothing. And Ranmir, well … " Nelacar paused here, as if trying to find an appropriate word, before shrugging. "He _unraveled_. In less than a day, he'd gone from the happiest man in Winterhold to the town drunk."

"That would be around the time of the rupture, then?" Grimnir asked, referring to the events that had unfolded just moments after Ancano had seized the Eye, and Arch-Mage Aren had been killed. One of the strange anomalies must have killed her, he decided, and they'd yet to find a body.

"Oh, no, it was before that," replied the elf. "I still keep tabs on the College and where its students go, and it turns out quite a few were away from the grounds a day before the ruptures opened up. I presume that was when Ancano made his move—when the College was at its weakest."

That gave Grimnir pause. _Then it must have happened while we were in Mzulft_, he thought. This wasn't very helpful, either—between the obstructive Synod Council, the resident automata, and the population of Falmer that had moved in and called that Dwarven ruin home, it had taken Grimnir and his friends two whole days to clear out that damnable place, and determine the location of the Staff of Magnus using the machinery inside.

"So no one knows where Isabelle's gone?" Grimnir asked.

"_They_ don't," Nelacar replied, indicating the inn outside his door. "And I don't think they'd _want_ to know. See, Isabelle and Ranmir loved each other unconditionally. But even that can only get you so far—sooner or later, you need money … and those two needed a lot of money.

"They had a conversation just like that last Loredas, and it sounded like some strong drink was involved," Nelacar went on. "Ancano must have heard them, because after they turned in here for the night, I saw that elf write something down, and slip it under Isabelle's pillow. Ancano saw me looking, unfortunately, and he threatened me that if I ever told anyone what I'd seen there that night, he would make me watch him unmake your College stone by stone. The next morning, Isabelle was gone."

"Well, you don't need to worry about Ancano any more," Grimnir said reassuringly. "Anything you can tell me from here on out would be helpful. This Isabelle might possess some vital information—I need to know where she might have headed."

"Most likely someplace to find something valuable to sell," sniffed Nelacar. "I caught a glimpse of the note before Ancano put it under Isabelle's pillow. It mentioned a place called 'Hob's Fall'—I'm told it's a cave near that abandoned lighthouse far west—and to ask for someone called M'Alga."

Grimnir felt as if a bucketful of ice had been dumped into his stomach. That was the second time he'd come across that mysterious name, now. He'd hardly been one to believe in coincidence, and he wasn't about to start tonight.

Whoever this M'Alga was, he was dangerous.

He left the Frozen Hearth at a fast clip without bidding farewell to Nelacar, his mind focused entirely on this Hob's Fall place, and what (or who) might await him within.

But he was too focused to see that another, much darker pair of eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second longer than might have been necessary. Then the moment had passed, and the bard continued to play as if Grimnir had not come through the door at all.

* * *

_Next chapter: Grimnir uncovers a much bigger conspiracy than he could have imagined._

* * *

**A/N: For those of you who've gotten far enough in _Second Seed_: Yes; that is who you think it is.**


	3. II

II

_The next morning_

Hob's Fall looked like a long, thin scar that sliced into the shoreline of northern Skyrim. A little-known story surrounded the place: long ago, a bandit called Hob had decided to move into an old Nordic tomb northeast of here. Now Hob was not the smartest of bandits, and by the time he realized the tomb he'd broken into belonged to no less a person than Ysgramor himself, the spirit of the Nordic hero had—so the stories went—quite literally _kicked_ Hob out of his tomb. The unfortunate bandit had landed on the shoreline opposite the barrow, and the furrow in the frozen earth that his body had left behind had been known as Hob's Fall ever since.

Of course, the story was considered apocryphal even in Skyrim—every Nord worth his salt could recognize Ysgramor's tomb, no matter what his state of mind, and would thus know better than to desecrate it in such a way.

But even so, Grimnir found himself wondering if he was about to commit a similar act of folly as he approached the jagged gash in the frozen earth. The object of his gaze was a narrow hole, barely large enough to fit a man, and beyond which was a pool of infinite blackness.

"I hope you understand what we're dealing with here," he told the three mages behind him. He hadn't bothered telling J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund to wait back at the College until he got back—the four had been through enough together that there wouldn't have been any point. One way or the other, they were joining him in all this.

"Just another cult of necromancers, right?" Brelyna said with a rueful smile.

"Even if they're connected to the Thalmor somehow," added Onmund, tightening his gloves.

"Sh!"

Everyone whirled around at J'zargo, who had hissed just now. Every last one of the Khajiit's whiskers was standing straight out, and quivering slightly. His eyes were not straying an inch from the entrance to the cave.

"Someone comes," the Khajiit whispered.

Instantly everyone was alert. "Friend or foe?" Brelyna asked uneasily.

J'zargo was silent for entirely too long. "This one cannot tell. He does not smell blood magic—only _blood_."

Grimnir didn't like the sound of that. It certainly wasn't a necromancer, if what J'zargo was saying was true—but the worst people in the world, he'd learned, didn't always practice necromancy. Therefore, he brought his magic to bear, and his fingers sparked with lightning, as did Onmund's, while J'zargo and Brelyna readied fire and frost.

J'zargo sniffed the air. "There!"

He pointed at the entrance to the cave, and for a moment, Grimnir saw nothing. Then, a moment later, a figure slowly emerged from the maw, shrouded in a tattered black cloak that hid all flesh. The figure hardly made any noise at all as it walked—almost glided—towards the four mages. Unless Grimnir's eyes were deceiving him, the figure was hardly made any footprints in the snow, either. And there wasn't the slightest breeze of wind in the air right now.

The figure drew closer, finally stepping out of the shadows—and Brelyna gasped. Grimnir couldn't blame her; he himself had started as the shredded cloth had shifted for only a moment, revealing a slice of a woman's pale face, white as a skull, and two sunken eyes caked in makeup as jet-black as the eyes themselves. There were no whites to those dark eyes, giving Grimnir the uneasy feeling that he was staring into the face of death itself—a notion not helped when he noticed the glint of a dagger among the folds of the cloak.

There was a moment of silence as the five people stared at one another. Was that the north wind from the sea, Grimnir wondered—or was that the woman's breathing he was hearing, high and hollow as a draugr's death rattle?

And why—why now, of all times—did he have the feeling he'd seen this woman before?

Brelyna chose that moment to break the silence. "Who are you?" she demanded, raising a frost-encrusted hand to bear—ready to turn this woman into shards of ice at a moment's notice.

The woman looked back at her without the slightest trace of fear. Grimnir thought he saw those black eyes flicker from one mage to the next, as if they were being sized up before the fight to come. He felt a chill just then that he felt had nothing to do with the cold, and the Arch-Mage wondered if those twin pits of the void had passed over him.

The woman moved, and now it was J'zargo's turn to raise his paw, his unsheathed claws brimming with mage-fire. But he need not have worried—the woman, Grimnir noticed, wasn't drawing out another dagger, but a round, wooden tube about as long as his forearm.

Onmund saw it too, and frowned in confusion. "Is that … a flute?" he wondered out loud.

His question was immediately answered when the woman blew at one end of the tube, and began to play a short little ditty. Grimnir was not one for music; he couldn't identify what song that might be if his life was on the line.

Even so, as the song went on, he felt that feeling of familiarity prickling at the back of his mind again.

Suddenly, just before he sensed the last note of the woman's song was coming, her flute made a funny _fhoomp_ noise, and Grimnir heard something fly scant inches past his ear with a noise like an angry wasp just as he realized what had happened. He whirled around, expecting one of his friends to be face-down in the snow—

—and someone was.

But it wasn't one of his friends.

Somehow—Grimnir had no idea how—a man had managed to sneak up behind them. He, like the woman, was also clad in a black robe—though Grimnir was just able to see the dark red skull painted on the front of his garments, right before the man tumbled face-down before the mages, a sharpened steel dagger falling from his fingers.

Brelyna did a passable imitation of a river betty as she stared at the slain sorcerer, blood and white foam pooling under his mouth, staining the snow beneath him. " … What just happened?" she asked, thunderstruck.

J'zargo recovered first, diving for the body in a furry blur. A moment later, he'd carefully plucked something long and thin, like a needle, from the body with two claws. "Blowdart to the jugular," he was heard to say. "Obsidian, too. That woman must have been carrying it in her flute."

He handed the object to Grimnir; the Arch-Mage gingerly held the three-inch-long shard as though worried it would sting him. He was right to be apprehensive; obsidian of this shape and size was very dangerous to hold. Assassins of the old days would use shards of this black volcanic glass in the heads of their arrows and the edges of their throwing knives, as even though obsidian was very brittle when worked into a shape so thin, the edge it possessed—for however brief a time—was sharp enough to penetrate flesh, bone, and even armor as if it was paper. In this case, even holding this blowdart the wrong way could cut through Grimnir's glove—and likely the flesh of his hand as well.

Onmund cleared his throat as he turned around. "Thanks for saving our lives," he said. "I think we owe you—" But he broke off suddenly, and even before he turned around, Grimnir knew why.

_The woman was gone_.

"—one," Onmund finished lamely, as his mind also finished processing the empty space of snow before them.

"Where'd she go?" Brelyna asked indignantly, turning in a full circle, as though she was expecting the woman to pop out of hiding from one of the jagged rocks on either side of them. "There's only two ways out of this crevice—and we're blocking one of them."

"Perhaps she doubled back inside the cave," J'zargo suggested.

"Why, though?" wondered Grimnir out loud. "It looks to me like she was already busy doing … _something_ in there."

"Either way," Brelyna said as she crossed her arms, "we know two things. One, it looks like this Nelacar was telling the truth—there's definitely necromancers in this cave. The one that woman killed must have been the lookout. Invisible, probably—that's why we couldn't see him before. And two—if that woman really did go back inside, who's to say there aren't more of those mages waiting for her? We should back her up, try to keep her alive."

"We don't even know if she's on our side!" Onmund protested. "If that necromancer hadn't popped up behind us, how would you know that dart wouldn't have ended up in _your_ throat instead of _his_?"

"I don't," said Brelyna grimly. "Right now, I just want her alive because I have some questions for her." Her gaze turned to Grimnir. "If Nelacar was right, Ancano's the only one who knew about this place hiding a necromantic cult. _So why was that woman here?_"

Grimnir knew the Telvanni hopeful had a point—but even so, he was not altogether reassured by what he had just seen. "Well," he eventually said, holding back a swallow, "I suppose we should at least check out the cave. With any luck, she could even take a few necromancers out for us."

Before Brelyna could object, he raised a hand. "Don't worry, I'm not ruling out the possibility she'll kill us, either," he went on. "I'll go in first—no matter who attacks us in there, they'll have a much harder time of it if I'm the one in front. Onmund and Brelyna, cover me from behind. J'zargo, bring up the rear. If we get any more lookouts trying to sneak up behind us, you'll be the first to know."

To Grimnir's surprise, there were no objections—although Brelyna was definitely chewing her lip.

Only then did the Arch-Mage's words sink in. "Hm," he said, half to himself and slightly embarrassed. "Listen to me—Arch-Mage for not even a day, and I'm already ordering my friends around. I don't know if I'll ever get used to that," he said with a little laugh. "I'm not sure I want to, if I'm totally honest."

"Just mind where you point that dart in your hand," Brelyna said with a half-smile. "Dragons have a pretty big ego, if you're any indication. Wouldn't want yours punctured so soon, now, would we?"

The quartet laughed at the jibe—none more so than Grimnir, though he was alert enough to keep his voice down. "Let's head inside," he finally said, stepping towards the yawning maw of the cave. "And stay on your toes in there," he added warningly, "because if these people end up killing you, _we_ end up having to fight _you_."

And the four mages made their way inside, swallowed up by the darkness in a single, silent gulp.

* * *

Hob's Fall lay on the western edge of a crumbling glacier that made up nearly half the area of Winterhold. The entrance to the cave beyond took the four mages much deeper into the dense formation of ice, a narrow series of holes and crevices that looked as if they could collapse at any time.

To make matters even more tense, the frozen walls of the cave were so perfectly clear that they almost behaved like giant mirrors, catching the reflections of Grimnir, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo as each walked past, and distorting them past the point of recognizance. Twice in as many minutes, Grimnir had whirled around at a sudden flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye, though relaxing as each turned out to be his own mirror image, the crystalline walls warping his face into a lopsided leer that seemed to taunt him more and more every moment.

After a while, they entered a large cave, enough to swallow a fair-size house with room to spare. This was welcome news for Grimnir, whose nerves were already frayed from the false alarms. The icy walls spread further away from them, turning their reflections into formless, harmless blurs.

"Is there someone out there?"

The four mages froze—the voice they'd just now heard had come from some distance away, slightly above and to their right, atop a ledge that divided the cave in two. It wasn't much more than a rather loud whisper, but it echoed just enough in the chamber to where Grimnir could barely make out the words—and the pure, unadulterated terror they carried.

J'zargo, having the best and largest ears of the quartet, was better able to identify it. "Human female—a young, delicate maiden, no doubt," he spoke half to himself, a small smile playing about his lips. "A Breton, by the sound of her."

That caught Grimnir's attention right off the bat. "Isabelle," he breathed. It had to be—he knew it.

"They left me here—but they'll be back, there isn't much time," the voice continued.

"J'zargo," Grimnir said quietly, "can you climb up that ledge?" The Khajiit was the best climber out of anyone in the College, he knew—his keen eyes were just as adapted to finding claw-holds and crawlspaces as they were to spotting jewels and valuable trinkets.

But the Arch-Mage's heart sank as J'zargo shook his head. "It is too slippery," grumbled the cat. "This one's claws are worse than useless on all that ice."

"You have to help me now," Isabelle whispered frantically. "They're going to kill me!"

Grimnir swallowed. Apparently there was only one way ahead of them—and the odds of them getting there in time were very slim indeed. But however slim that chance was, it was a chance all the same.

First, however … "Everyone get ready," Grimnir muttered to the mages around him. "I'm going to try and talk to her, let her know help's on the way—there's a Shout I've been working on that might just let me get the word out, just quietly enough for her to hear. But I can't guarantee that any of these necromancers won't hear it either.

"So the moment I give the signal"—he pointed to a small passageway leading off to the left—"we make a break for it down _that _way. We won't have much time from there—we can't afford to double back. Anything that moves, make sure it doesn't move again. Understood?"

The telltale sounds of fire, ice, and lightning magic being primed on their fingers was all he needed to know.

"Good," Grimnir grunted, before turning his attention to the ledge in front of him.

The Arch-Mage's ears weren't nearly as good as J'zargo's, but he still possessed a good sense of direction. That would work in his favor; the smaller an area he could concentrate this Shout, the less chance there was of anyone else overhearing him—but it also meant that his message would have to be very short indeed.

"You can't just leave me here!"

Grimnir bit his lip. _Very, very short_.

He spent all of two crucial seconds aiming his head in as accurate an angle and direction as he could. Then, Grimnir breathed in, concentrating the ancient magic of the Voice in his lips, and Spoke. "_Hon … zul gut_."

He felt the sensation of a gentle breeze being expelled from his lips, and some loose snow on the ledge stirred in its wake. One second later, Grimnir spoke once more—though not in the commanding language of the dragons, but in a hoarse whisper that seemed to echo all throughout the cave.

"_Don't raise your voice, don't react at all—just listen,_" he said, as quickly as his tongue would let him. "_We're with the College of Winterhold. We've come to get you out—we're on our way for you now. Divines be with you._"

And without further ado, he wordlessly stuck out a finger towards the left-most cave. One second later, the four mages were sprinting blindly down that cave—all manner of magic at the ready, every last mage prepared to eliminate any obstacle in their way.

"You never told us you were working on new shouts," Onmund whispered to him, eyes shining with amazement. "When did you—"

"I've been looking over some texts—books to tell me more about the language of the dragons," Grimnir explained, as quickly as he could while running. "That way, I won't have to delve into any more ruins, or pore over any more burial stones just to learn how to use one more word. The knowledge of the Voice isn't worth breaking into someone's tomb for," he finished, looking at Onmund—Nordic culture was very reliant on respecting ancestral beliefs, and Onmund, mage though he was, was no exception.

Brelyna looked amazed. J'zargo had overheard, and merely looked envious. None of the three mages, however, paid close attention to the look on the Arch-Mage's face as they raced on.

As a Dragonborn, Grimnir was capable of absorbing the souls of slain dragons. These souls carried invaluable knowledge to him—knowledge that allowed him to broaden his understanding of the dragon language, and utilize the Words of that language in the same way that the dragons could—from breathing fire and frost to slowing time itself.

All this he had discovered a little more than two years ago, shortly before he'd started at the College of Winterhold. But Grimnir had soon learned that even among the Dragonborn, he was unique—for he was the _Last_ Dragonborn, prophesied in the Elder Scrolls to strike down the dragon god Alduin, the World-Eater. He had met the reclusive Greybeards atop the towering mountain on which they had built the monastery of High Hrothgar, and they had shown him the potential of the power he had unknowingly possessed all his life. And from there, his prophecy seemed to simply fall into place, like giant puzzle pieces. Alduin had been defeated, yes. Skyrim—indeed, all of existence—had been saved, yes. Grimnir had fulfilled his destiny as Dragonborn … _yes_.

But where did one go from there, Dragonborn or no? For Grimnir had not been content to savor the triumph of his victory, retiring comfortably to live out the end of his days as a hero—_no_. He wanted to know _more_ about the power of his Voice—to explore its outer limits, no matter how many dragons he had to fight. And so he had continued his studies at Winterhold, even as Ancano intruded into their lives, and turned them into a living hell. He had continued to slay one dragon after another, until he could no longer count them. And he would not rest until the whole of their language was know to him—until the power of their Words had been fully realized.

Grimnir Torn-Skull was the Last Dragonborn. There would be no more after him, he knew. None.

Which was why, deep inside, he wanted to be the _best_ of them all.

And it was this, perhaps paradoxically, that made another, smaller part of Grimnir wish he'd _never_ found out he was Dragonborn at all—that someone else had been chosen to hold that dubious distinction instead.

He had seen how Onmund's eyes had shone with reverence; Grimnir knew the man saw him as a hero—not simply as the Dragonborn, but as a fellow Nord who was also drawn to the mysteries of magic.

He had looked back into those eyes … and _lied_.

But Grimnir forced the thought from his mind. There would be time to brood upon it later. Right now, their mission was clear … and their clock—and Isabelle's—was slowly ticking away.

* * *

After another minute of racing through caves, Onmund spoke again—this time voicing an unsettling thought.

"Where _is_ everyone?" the Nord wondered, huffing and puffing. "Unless they're all grouped up in one place, this cult must be incredibly small! We should've seen someone else by now—even a skeleton!"

Grimnir frowned. Onmund was right—they hadn't seen anyone since they'd arrived in here—not even in the last cave they'd passed, which had contained a tiny little study—with the candle still burning merrily in its stick. Something was definitely wrong—and there was also the fact that they'd been seeing several piles of ash and bones lying here and there. They all looked as if they'd been recently animated. And yet … Grimnir felt his mind returning to the mysterious woman once again. How deep inside this cave had she journeyed?

He turned to Brelyna. "Can you spare some magic for a detection spell?" he asked. "Something I want to check—but my detection skills are worse than useless when it comes to necromancers. I need to be _sure_ on this one."

The Dunmer nodded, her face twitching as she did her best to ignore a sudden stitch in her chest.

Grimnir Spoke once more. "_Laas._" A scarlet haze settled over his eyes, and for a moment all went black. But Grimnir could still see well enough; enough to see the life force of every single thing inside this cave—including the arcane energies that necromancers used to animate their thralls like puppets.

At the same time, he saw Brelyna out of the corner of his eye. The dark elf's eyes were blazing with violet light, and her expression of great concentration doubtless looked no different from Grimnir's.

Then, suddenly, she gasped. "Arch-Mage!" she stammered. "How many did you count up ahead?"

Grimnir was just able to count out two scatterings of necromancers some distance away. "Two groups," he muttered. "The first looks like four, the second … five. Including Isabelle."

Brelyna looked grim as they crossed a wooden footbridge over a considerably deep chasm. "Then we've got a problem. I just cast a Detect Dead spell—and I'm counting at least that many people. Dead. Not just skeletons and thralls, either. Corpses. Some of them are right in front of us."

J'zargo suddenly looked down, his furry face wrinkled in consternation—and suddenly, to Grimnir's shock and horror, he jumped over the bridge and into the abyss.

"J'zargo!"

But Onmund need not have shouted—even as gravity began to assert its immutable grip upon the Khajiit, J'zargo had already produced a steel dagger from inside his robes as his paws closed over one of the ropes holding up the bridge. The rope was cleanly cut with a single slice, and J'zargo swung downwards, looking for all the world like an Imgakin of Valenwood. Grimnir barely saw him dismounting the rope out of the corner of his eye, landing with Khajiit grace on a vertical ledge and rebounding onto the snowy bottom of the chasm.

Grimnir swore. "Onmund—scrye!" he said breathlessly, out of not only fatigue, but exasperation at the antics of the Khajiit. "We need to regroup _now!_"

The Nord was already murmuring an incantation for a clairvoyance spell, and Grimnir slowed his pace just enough to let him take the lead.

"This way!" Onmund cried out, ducking down a crevice that was just wide enough for them to squeeze in single file—Grimnir with some difficulty—while still keeping up a brisk trot.

Bones and gore crunched and squished underfoot as they reached the bottom of the chasm seconds later. A rudimentary hovel had been erected here, including some crude shelves and an alchemy lab. J'zargo was kneeling over a necromancer lying in his bed. Something about the way the sorcerer was laying under the covers told Grimnir that he wasn't simply sleeping.

But the Arch-Mage only had eyes for the Khajiit in front of him. "_What the devil were you playing at?!_" he thundered at J'zargo. "Are you _trying_ to be the first person to give a Dragonborn a heart attack?"

To his annoyance, J'zargo continued to show the tips of his fangs in a smile as he rose up. "Sorry," he said, with a shrug as unconvincing as his apology. "But the necromancer here intrigued J'zargo. Khajiit wished for a closer look—but as you said, we did not have much time to rescue the maiden Isabelle. So, J'zargo had to _improvise_."

Grimnir knew J'zargo had done worse in the time they'd known each other—his reputation of having ten _very sticky_ claws was already legend among the College—but that didn't stop him from seething at the wily cat. Luckily, Grimnir was saved from acting on it when Brelyna promptly clubbed J'zargo between his ears with one of the longer, heavier, and cleaner bones strewn about the area.

"Will you stop it with the showboating?" Brelyna hissed at him. "For all we know, Isabelle's already _gone!_ And if she is, I'm blaming _you!_ Fat lot of good it'll do for you, trying to impress a _dead maiden!_"

That was enough to make the Khajiit's smile fade—but even as he rubbed the newly formed bruise atop his head, his expression immediately looked gravely concerned. "J'zargo examined the necromancer," he said, as though he had not just been set upon by a dark elf with little tolerance for showing off. "There is something you may wish to see."

He held up the _something_ in question by the tips of two claws. Grimnir caught just a sliver of reflected light—and then his breath caught in his throat.

"Another blowdart," he murmured, his anger at J'zargo completely forgotten. He peered up close to the impossibly thin shard of obsidian. Was it his imagination, or was something dripping from the tip of the dart?

"Check it for poison," he said quickly. There had to be something—now that he looked back on the death of that lookout, there was no way a simple dart could kill a fully-grown man in such a short time.

J'zargo sniffed the dart, and promptly pulled a face. "Lotus extract," he muttered. "Poisoned, indeed—and a very difficult agent to come by. That woman in black is very well taken care of, to have such a weapon. Only the provincial guilds would have ready access to something like this."

"Provincial guilds?" Onmund wondered. "D'you mean the Thieves' Guild?"

"Mm." J'zargo's expression did not waver. "This one thinks it more likely she is with the Brotherhood."

Everyone, including Grimnir, winced at this. At one time, the Dark Brotherhood was widely considered _the_ assassin's guild of Tamriel; however, little had been heard of them for decades until very recently—some had even believed the shadowy organization was extinct. But there had been whispers of late—rumors of random, grisly murders being committed for no apparent reason, and in every case, the perpetrator had never been found.

The latest of these, of course, had none other than Vittoria Vici, murdered at the reception of her own wedding—in the courtyard of the Temple of the Divines, no less. While Tamriel was largely left in shock at the senseless murder, most of Skyrim had remained insensate to the attack—the Stormcloak Rebellion still raged on, after all, and there was no indication it would stop for her funeral, whether the Emperor came or not. In fact, the only indication the Stormcloaks had even known Vici had been slain was that their leader, Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, had vehemently denied his role in the events, and had wasted no time in publicly denigrating the perpetrator.

No one could doubt, though, that the hopeful High King was secretly glad at such an important Imperial meeting such a sticky end—even if, as many rumors suggested, that the Dark Brotherhood had been the ones behind it.

"What would an elite assassin be doing in the den of a necromantic cult, though?" Onmund wondered out loud. "Surely you'd send in a specialist for this sort of thing—a Vigilant of Stendarr, or a Knight of the Lamp, right? Sending in a hired killer sounds to me like this was meant to be kept _quiet_."

"We don't know the whole story behind it," said Grimnir. "Probably never will." He stretched. "We'll speculate later—we've delayed enough down here as it is. We need to make our way to Isabelle, _now_."

He shot a look at J'zargo as the mages resumed their hasty journey.

* * *

Even before he had scanned the cave for any trace of life force, Grimnir had had a suspicion that the woman in the black shroud had been either unable or unwilling to clear out its occupation of necromancers and undead.

Once, twice, and three times, however, the four mages had come across several more piles of bones, ash, and gore, and the occasional body with it. Grimnir had the distinct impression that the woman had indeed been trying to get deeper into the cave, but she had been rebuffed by something stronger.

A problem, no doubt, she was hoping they would solve for her, he thought as they ducked their way through a series of magickal traps. J'zargo's kleptomaniac tendencies had not diminished in the slightest since their forays into Mzulft and Labyrinthian; here, after taking the time to raid a nearby supply chest, he spent several dangerous seconds plucking the soul gems of the traps off their plinths, even as they sprayed his paws with frost magic.

"One of these days, there'll be a piece of treasure that blows your paws clean off," Brelyna grumbled as J'zargo healed his frostbitten hand for the third time, "and I hope to Azura that I'm there to watch it happen."

Suddenly, just as the Dunmer had finished patching up J'zargo, Grimnir threw out his hands and skidded to a halt—they had just ran headlong into another cave, larger than the one they had just left. A square stone altar had been erected in the middle, and several bloody skeletons were strewn about the area.

Two necromancers had clearly been busy painting sigils upon the altar, while a pair of skeletons patrolled the perimeter. Unfortunately, Grimnir and the others had made so much noise walking into this cave that even the dead could have heard them blundering in. By the time they'd rounded the corner, the sorcerers had already cast flesh spells upon themselves—easily noticed by the green glow surrounding their bodies—and had their magic to bear.

Immediately, the four mages sprang into action. As the necromancers drew back, they cast reanimation spells on more of the skeletons lying around the cave walls. With a clatter of bones and a rattle of new breath, the skeletons came to their feet, drawing rotted bows and pitted blades as they charged for the wizards of Winterhold.

J'zargo and Brelyna took the skeletons out with calm precision, and an ample helping of fire and frost from each. The Dunmer's icy needles showered the cave, lodging themselves into the joints of the skeletons, freezing their movements and rendering them helpless against the onslaught to come. J'zargo's paws waved this way and that, and mage-fire lit up the cave walls with such intensity that the necromancers—in spite of their distance—had to cast ward spells to keep themselves from being consumed as well. Two of the skeletons fell to the flames almost immediately, and J'zargo aimed a hefty kick at a third as it aimed an arrow at Brelyna, scattering its bones to the far reaches of the cave.

Onmund and Grimnir, meanwhile, went after the two necromancers. Forked lightning spat from the hands of both Nord men, flash-burning one sorcerer straight through her heart. But necromancers possessed a notorious disregard for the sanctity of life—not even for the flesh and blood of their own. One incantation later, and that same sorcerer was back on her feet, her mortal wound swirling with shadow and arcane energy—

"_Fus … Ro DAH!_" Grimnir bellowed, and a blast of blue wind erupted from his mouth, speeding for the other necromancer. Onmund ducked away just in time—but the warlock had been ready for Grimnir; his ward spell deflected the brunt of the Shout in every other direction but his own. Bones, gore, and detritus flew as thick as arrows, pelting the mages like heavy rain. Grimnir himself felt something heavy, wet, and very smelly hit the hood of his robe, hard enough to leave him dazed for a few moments.

_Damn!_

He recovered just in time to see the reanimated necromancer firing ice spikes by the dozen at him, and Grimnir found himself having to create a ward of his own to stop the worst of the attacks. Fortunately, Onmund saw that he was pinned down; one whip of lightning later, the necromancer was dissolving before his feet with a final, guttural moan.

There was still one more necromancer to take care of, though—and J'zargo, for his part, was doing a good job of keeping him on his toes. The Khajiit was throwing fireballs of such intensity that Grimnir could feel their heat from the other end of the cave. But all that was going to do was burn out his reserves much quicker than anyone. The necromancer knew this, and was doing his best to weather the storm with the ward in his hands.

Unfortunately, however, the numbers were not in his favor.

"_Iiz … Slen NUS!_" roared Grimnir. The wind that burst from his lips was a much lighter blue this time, and much colder as well. It washed over the necromancer, ward and all. By the time that the icy Shout had passed over him, the warlock's flesh had been frozen solid—a sitting duck for one last fireball from J'zargo.

"I'm getting sloppy," Grimnir grunted, before all the pieces of the necromancer had fallen back to earth. "Not as young as I used to be. The new office is already sucking the life right out of me," he added with a chuckle.

"We killed them, though, didn't we?" Onmund was looking over an ebony dagger that one of the necromancers had been carrying.

Grimnir nodded. "Still, I was hoping I could have left that other one alive," he said. "Maybe he could have offered me some clue to what the hell's going on in this cave."

"Well, you might get your chance yet," Brelyna spoke up. Her eyes were blazing with the violet light of another detection spell. "But we can't crack any more jokes, either. I'm seeing five more necromancers in the next cave beyond this—and Isabelle's with them!"

Grimnir's heart rose. "How can you tell?"

Brelyna set her jaw. "Because her life force is already starting to fade."

That sobered the mages completely. "You mean … they're going to kill her?" Onmund swallowed.

"That's right," said the Dunmer. "She's a ritual sacrifice. And I'm afraid I might know why."

* * *

Another set of frost traps lay waiting for them in the corridor beyond—Onmund had to tug J'zargo by the scruff of his robe to prevent the Khajiit from wasting any more time removing the pinkish soul gems from their pillars. From there, it was a mad dash down a long, narrow crevice to what Grimnir hoped would be the last of their troubles in this cave.

Unfortunately, that was not to be; a little ways before the fissure opened up, a glowing array of runes and shapes blocked their path.

"Barrier," Brelyna hissed, studying it intently. "I shouldn't be surprised, really—all that noise we made on the way over? They'd have to be deaf not to have heard us."

"Can we break through?" Grimnir asked impatiently. "If these people really are going to trap her soul, like you said—"

"Shh!" hissed Brelyna. "I can hear someone on the other side!"

Everyone immediately became silent. Within moments, Grimnir could hear noises on the other side of the barrier. The hum of the construct obscured them slightly, but he could still make out some indistinct chanting—the necromancers' ritual, no doubt—and a series of small, broken sobs.

_Isabella_.

_It was already starting_.

"Find a way to bring this barrier down," Grimnir muttered. "Be quick and quiet—I don't want us attracting any attention—" He broke off again, having just heard a louder, clearer voice from the other side of the cave.

"We offer this soul to the Revenant," chanted the voice, who Grimnir assumed to be the presider of the ritual, "he who watches over the opponents of Arkay, and his power over life and death. Fie upon Arkay!" he cried. "Fie upon those who would follow him!"

"Fie!" echoed the sorcerers next to him. Silently, J'zargo held up four claws—four voices, not including the presider. "Fie!"

"We beseech you now," whispered the necromancer, "Darken this gem before us, that we may use its power to restore the Order of the Black Worm!"

Brelyna stifled a gasp of horror, the barrier completely forgotten. "The Black Worm?!" she whispered to Grimnir. "Arch-Mage, these are no ordinary necromancers. They worship the Revenant—_they're followers of Mannimarco!_"

Grimnir felt a sensation rather like his stomach dissolving as his mind processed this new information.

Every mage worth his salt was taught to fear the infamous King of Worms from the onset of his training, and the Arch-Mage of Winterhold was no exception. Mannimarco and his servants, both living and otherwise, had been the scourge of Tamriel for well over a thousand years, and more than one source claimed to have killed him—only to be proven false centuries later. Even his most recent death, dating back to over two hundred years ago—almost alongside the Oblivion Crisis in Cyrodiil—had not entirely settled the matter among the majority of the general public, and if anything, this form of cult worship that Grimnir was seeing right now had only intensified in the wake of Mannimarco's disappearance.

The Arch-Mage grit his teeth—if this really was the Black Worm, then there was no way he could let this ritual reach its conclusion.

* * *

"The Order shall rise," hissed the warlock as he laid one hand on the heavy purplish crystal in front of him, and the other upon the breast of the bloodied, terrified Breton woman on whom the soul gem rested. "Grant us this power, Revenant, that we might vanquish our enemies in your name!"

"_Yol … Toor SHUL!_"

The necromancers' ward never stood a chance. An explosion of searing flame—Spoken into being with three Words of Grimnir's Voice—billowed out of the crevice, shattering the construct without losing any momentum at all. One of the warlocks was unfortunate enough to be standing guard right at the mouth of the fissure when the fireball roared past. Very little of his robes—or his body, for that matter—remained to topple to the ground.

Grimnir Torn-Skull burst from the smoking remains, all notion of stealth and care gone as he bore down upon the remaining necromancers like a dragon on the wing. He didn't have any care for the three remaining sorcerers as they readied their magic. His eyes were only set on the naked, white-haired maiden tied to the altar before them—and the tall, angular high elf above her.

He saw the purplish-black gem resting in the Altmer's hand, the size of his own fist—and more importantly, saw that it was beginning to glow. Violet tendrils snaked from Isabelle's body, and she convulsed violently with a choking noise. Grimnir saw tiny sigils appearing on her exposed chest, running from hands to feet in an X pattern, crossing directly over the gem held high—

Isabelle began to scream—a piercing, never-ending shriek—Unrelenting Force was too risky, Grimnir knew; he dared not use it again—

There was no more time—he had to act—

"_WULD!_"

Only then was the Altmer's concentration broken. He turned to see who had spoken up just now—and was immediately hit in the chest by a ferocious left hook from Grimnir. The Arch-Mage's Shout had harnessed the power of the winds, and directed them to his feet, increasing his speed a thousand-fold for the tiniest blink of an eye—and with it, the force of his punch. The gangly high elf was sent flying headlong into a rocky, natural column at least twenty feet away, hitting hard enough to crack the snow-dusted stone. He slumped to the ground, dropped the gem, and did not move.

But the sigils had not faded from Isabelle's flesh—and still she continued to convulse.

"No!" cried one of the necromancers, an Imperial, as he fended off a firebolt from J'zargo. "The gem is crucial to our success! They must not take it!"

He made as if to break for it, but his companion, another Dunmer, held him back. "The ritual isn't finished yet!" she cried. "We just have to hold them off for a few more—!"

She broke off here—unable to finish her sentence on account of the well-timed ice spike from Brelyna that had just been forced down her open mouth. The frozen missile turned a dark scarlet in less than a second as a fountain of blood spurted from the fatal wound.

Even as the luckless Dunmer's companion made to revive her, Grimnir's full attention was now on Isabelle. It wasn't good—the Breton was starting to foam at the mouth now, her convulsions becoming worse than ever. The Arch-Mage's mind began to race—they'd said something about a gem—

Immediately, he dived for the presider's body, recalling the black soul gem he'd seen in his hand. It only took a moment—there it was; he was worried it had been knocked away in the confusion. He turned to Isabelle, and suddenly realized he had no idea how to reverse this—

"Brelyna!" Grimnir hollered, his heart pounding. "I could use a hand here!"

The Telvanni paused only to disintegrate both the Imperial and his Dunmer puppet with the same blast of lightning before leaping over to the Arch-Mage.

"How do I reverse this?" Grimnir asked hurriedly. "I've got _seconds_, Brelyna—and Isabelle's got less!"

"We need to interrupt these sigils somehow," the Dunmer replied. "If we can erase enough of the inscriptions, we might be able to—BEHIND YOU!"

Grimnir had registered her look of horror a second too late. He whirled around to see the third necromancer, who alone of the cult he had yet to notice. This one, a middle-aged Breton man, had clearly been fighting—a split second's glimpse revealed a smoldering robe; clearly he'd been tangling with Onmund and J'zargo before this—but circumstances had kept Grimnir from seeing him in action beforehand.

Then it happened.

Grimnir felt a hand close over the left side of his face, and instinctively he shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to break free of the unexpectedly strong grip.

"Don't try to struggle, Dragonborn," said the necromancer in a savage snarl. "That's only going to make it _hurt_. And our master was clear that he wants the Arch-Mage alive—oh yes, _he_ has plans for you … "

Suddenly, Grimnir forgot about the fact that he was fighting to save a woman from mortal danger—he even forgot that he might be in mortal danger himself. Their master … _the master of the Worm Cult_ … was he truly talking about M—

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGH!"

_Pain_—pain beyond any he'd ever known—was surging into his skull, where the necromancer was grabbing him. The flesh of Grimnir's cheek was freezing cold, and felt as if it was being pierced with a thousand blades. So great was the pain that it was only much later before Grimnir realized the screaming voice was his own.

He heard screaming from Brelyna too, then shouts from Onmund and J'zargo—or was that the necromancer? Then a gigantic explosion from somewhere behind him unseated him completely—Grimnir felt himself falling even as his face hit the rough, rocky ground, falling into darkness …

* * *

"Lucky he moved when he did … "

"This one had thought he was dead for sure."

"I just wish we had enough time to save them both … "

Grimnir snapped his eyes open—or at least, one of them; for some reason, his left eye was being very slow to budge. He felt an unpleasant feeling inside his skull, as if hundreds of ice-cold swords were ripping into the flesh and bone beneath. He couldn't see much—it looked as though he was still lying face-down on the ground. It certainly felt like it, too.

"How do you feel?" Brelyna's voice suddenly rang out from above him. That, more than anything, helped Grimnir back to his senses. He rolled over to where he could sit up, but felt a gentle pair of hands on him.

"Not so quickly," said the Dunmer. "We had to use a _lot_ of healing magic on you. And we're not entirely certain we did a good job of it, either. We were very worried about you."

Grimnir looked around. He could open his left eye now; it was still rather painful, but at least he could still see from it. Onmund looked just as grayish-white as the cave walls. Everything about J'zargo—ears, whiskers, even his tail—had an uncharacteristic droop to them, even though seeing Grimnir conscious again had clearly done a boon for his spirits.

"Well," Grimnir grunted, "I certainly feel like I didn't earn the name 'Torn-Skull' for nothing." He laughed bleakly at his own joke—wondering apropos of nothing which of his ancestors had been the first to use that sobriquet, and why.

To his chagrin, though, none of the other mages were laughing with him. " … What happened?" he asked, immediately sensing something very wrong had happened.

Onmund swallowed several times before he spoke up. "That necromancer did some really nasty work on your face when he grabbed you," he said. "Not just physically, but magically as well."

"Frost magic," Brelyna explained. "Not very powerful, but point-blank all the same. And there was every indication he'd been aiming elsewhere. If you hadn't closed your eyes, tried to throw him off … Grimnir, he could have blinded you—maybe even killed you."

Grimnir gingerly touched his freezing cheek with a finger. The flesh felt rough and shredded, as if by an entire shoal of slaughterfish. Grimnir recalled how his friends had already expounded a great deal of restoration magic on him, and instinctively knew that he would be carrying these woulds for the rest of his life.

_Well_, he thought, _at least no one's going to think I'm Ysgramor in the flesh anymore_.

But even as he tried to keep the mood light, Grimnir felt the chill in his skull seeping slowly into the rest of his body as the rest of Brelyna's words sank in. _Blinded, she said—even killed?!_

But with a great deal of effort, he shrugged that off—the rest of these injuries could be dealt with later. There were more important things to deal with. "What happened to Isabelle?" he asked.

Silence again. Onmund's face looked more white than gray now. Instantly, Grimnir knew he didn't need to hear any more—the cold, horrible truth was sinking into him further still—piercing his heart, choking his lungs, constricting his stomach like an iron vice.

"I-it happened just after you lost consciousness," Brelyna stammered, pausing every now and again to steady her breathing. "Isabelle j-just … it's my fault, Grimnir. I was too busy fighting that last necromancer to see that she'd stopped her thrashing about. I didn't think about what that might have meant until … until it was too late."

"Don't blame yourself, Brelyna," said Grimnir. "Is there anything that can be done?"

Brelyna bowed her head. "Not without that black soul gem," she said sadly. "And even if we did still have it, I wouldn't feel right bringing her back—it'd be for a good cause, I understand, but it's necromancy all the same. Isabelle's dead—it's best for us all that she stays that way."

Grimnir started, forgetting the dull blow to his lungs he'd felt upon hearing _Isabelle's dead_. "Was the soul gem destroyed?"

"No." J'zargo spoke up for the first time. His normally smooth purr of a voice was gone; now, it bordered on a bitter, spitting hiss. "It was transported elsewhere—exactly where, Khajiit could not tell you. The necromancers believed that soul gem was very valuable to them. When it was darkened, and Isabelle's soul was trapped inside, you were able to throw off the necromancer after he accosted you."

Grimnir cursed the nameless sorcerer under his breath. "So he took off with the gem?"

"Not exactly." J'zargo smiled ruefully. "Reverse Conjuration; he teleported the soul gem out of our reach. It was the last thing that necromancer did—and this one made sure that he paid _dearly_ for his misdeeds."

He waved a paw behind him, spitting on the snow in disgust; Grimnir noticed a charred bundle of robes and … He felt sick as he looked at what was wearing the sizzling remains of the garment. J'zargo had clearly wasted no time in employing his newly-learned incineration spells; the Breton necromancer wasn't even a body anymore—simply a twisted, shapeless mass of reddish-black goo and melted bone.

"We buried Isabelle shortly before you woke up," said Brelyna, indicating a pile of snow some distance away from the altar. "Clothed her and everything. I think it's what Ranmir would have wanted. And speaking of Ranmir … " Here, Brelyna pulled out a small scrap of folded parchment. "This was in the pocket of Isabelle's tunic. It wasn't sealed-but it was addressed to Ranmir."

Grimnir took the tiny letter from the Dunmer's hands, and began to read.

_My dearest,_

_I know that it was wrong to mislead you, but I didn't want you to prevent me from going._

_I know it's been hard on you, on both of us, struggling to survive. I hate to see the look in your eyes every time you think about how little the two of us have, and I know you're too proud to ever say anything. So I'm going to make it all better. I know how to get something that will allow us to live happily, without ever worrying about money ever again._

_I love you so much, Ranmir. You mean the world to me, and I only want to see you happy._

_Worry not. I'll be home soon._

_Isabelle Rolaine_

The letter fluttered to the ground. Brelyna's eyes were swimming with sympathetic tears as she bowed her head, having peered over Grimnir's shoulder to read the handwriting. J'zargo and Onmund must have done the same thing; they looked sick, and were shooting looks of disgust at the corpses of the necromancers around them.

But all of this went unnoticed by Grimnir, whose vision was slowly turning a boiling scarlet. He had never felt so angry in his life. These necromancers had torn a young couple's future apart—and for what? Their own personal gain? The promise of power beyond measure? And it had been Ancano who had told them to do it.

He spat on the ground, cursing the elf with every breath he took. Ancano had _known_ he would come here, too—how else would that accursed necromancer have known he was Dragonborn—?

"Grimnir!" Onmund's voice suddenly cut through the crimson fog of his fury. "One of them is still alive!"

The Arch-Mage slowly turned to see where Onmund was pointing. The high elf was still lying slumped against the cracked pillar where Grimnir had thrown him. He didn't look as though he had much longer for this world, though—Grimnir knew if wanted information, he'd have to be quick.

Before the dying sorcerer could think to do anything—even to take his next ragged breath—Grimnir had appeared before him in two long strides, reaching out with a stocky, muscular arm and lifting the necromancer by the scruff of his robes to a more comfortable sitting position.

"You two, hold him," Grimnir told Onmund and J'zargo. "Brelyna—if he tries to attack or escape, I don't want _anything_ left of him. Not even ash."

Not daring to wait for a reply, he stared down at the Altmer with a sense of loathing he had never felt for anyone before—not even Ancano. "I'm going to have a little _talk_ with him," he said. "I suggest you look away now."

J'zargo frowned. "Why?"

Grimnir spoke just one word in reply.

"_FAAS!_"

A red mist poured from his mouth, and washed over the necromancer. For a moment there was nothing more. Then, the necromancer's eyes suddenly widened to the size of septims, and he pitched forward with a piercing scream of terror as the nightmarish vision Grimnir had just Spoken into his mind began to take effect.

Quickly, before the sorcerer could break free through sheer force of panic alone, Grimnir caught him by the throat, and _squeezed_ just a little to stop the shouting. "What have you been doing here?" he hissed through his teeth, lowering his voice just a little to complete the fearsome illusion he was forcing on the warlock.

The petrified Altmer could only choke out a whisper. "Soul gem … power source. Need … for ritual … "

"What did you do to Isabelle?" rumbled Grimnir. "Why did you need her so badly?"

"Already … dead," burbled the necromancer, hacking out a thin cackle despite the constriction of his throat. "Soul gem … Mzurkunch … Xrib. Cave to … north … near Azura … shrine."

_Mzurkunch?_ Grimnir had never heard of a Dwemer ruin with that name before—but he thought he knew what cave the necromancer might be talking about. He'd never been down there, but …

"Why are you telling us this?" Brelyna interrogated him. "What do you stand to gain?"

"M'Alga … is coming," stammered the elf. "Dragon … born … Cannot … stop him. Death … so much death … to come … " He giggled weakly with childlike glee, as if the prospect excited him even in the face of imminent death.

Grimnir _squeezed_ again at the mention of the infernal name—much harder this time. "Who is M'Alga?!" he demanded. "Tell me _now!_"

But something had finally darkened behind the eyes of the high elf, and white foam was already dribbling from the sorcerer's mouth as he smiled for the last time. "You … will … see … him … soon … "

Then his neck lolled about limply in Grimnir's iron grip, and the necromancer's eyes were forever frozen in defiance and triumph as his soul sailed for the afterlife. Whatever illusion had been created by the Dragonborn's Voice had proved fatal—too much for his mind to bear.

Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo were now staring wide-eyed at their Arch-Mage, with something that could almost be called awed respect … or outright fear. But Grimnir, though he dared not concede it, wagered he felt more fear in his heart than all three of them combined. The knowledge that a Worm Cult had somehow survived the ages had been completely forgotten in his mind.

That was _three_ times now he had heard that maddening, accursed name. Three times in two days—and each time, it had led him and everyone with him from bad to worse. Now, somehow, this M'Alga had figured out who he was, known of his accession to Arch-Mage of Winterhold, of being the Last Dragonborn—perhaps even from the beginning.

And Grimnir Torn-Skull still hadn't learned a damned thing about _him_.

* * *

_Next chapter: The Black Worm is no ordinary necromantic cult … and their leader is no ordinary being._

* * *

**A/N: All right, I think that's enough of a break from writing.**

**So, now I'm out of school, I'm going to try and get back into some sort of groove. I don't see this story being _quite_ as long as _Second Seed_—though I've been wrong before—however, I've been looking for jobs left, right and center since the year began, and I'm trying to manage my time enough to where I can try to succeed on both fronts without too much trouble. I'd like to think I can still put out two new chapters every month, though—if only so I can put some regularity back into my life.**

**HON ZUL GUT (Hear, Voice, Far)—Similar to ZUL MEY GUT in all but function: where the latter is used for distraction, the former may be used for private conversation. Call it the Dragonborn's take on telepathy.**

**Rate and review if you so desire, and thanks for reading! – K**


	4. III

III

_Morthal_

_That night_

The fire was burning low in Highmoon Hall, seat of the Jarl of Hjaalmarch, and the draftiness of the place was more evident than ever. The elderly woman who sat upon the throne, however, had more worrying troubles than the prospect of the coming chill of night.

Idgrod Ravencrone was seldom troubled by the present—her special gift made sure of that. But this gift of hers often led her to worry just as much about the future. And though her husband had never said anything to the effect, she had a feeling half the wrinkles on her face were the result of all that worrying.

The other half came from Falion. That Redguard was a strange one indeed—even Idgrod couldn't read him at all when they had first met. She had assumed they had taught something up in Winterhold, something that blocked off the mind, prevented others from looking in and discovering any number of dirty little secrets—because Falion was sure to have a few; there was no other reason why he'd act so secretive in this dreary little town! And then there had been that horrible fire not long ago; it had only made matters all the more tense, to the point that the townspeople—after years of putting up with Falion's habit of skulking about to Aedra-only-knew-where—had finally had enough.

Even with her failing senses, Idgrod could hear still the hubbub outside, on the steps of her front door.

"What's the Jarl going to do about it?" That would be Jorgen, she knew, one of the lumberjacks who worked the mill in town. Which meant that …

"How are we supposed to feel safe in our own homes?" _There_ he was, Idgrod thought; the other woodcutter, Thonnir, never strayed too far from Jorgen.

Neither of these men particularly liked old Idgrod, and more than once she'd heard of how Thonnir in particular wanted out of this place. To Idgrod's credit, she had sympathized for him—his wife, known to be a very staunch Stormcloak supporter, had joined the fight shortly before the Battle of Whiterun, but she had not been seen in the last few months. Many feared she had been killed in action—and sadly, Thonnir was beginning to look as though he was beginning to accept the cold truth.

"Enough already! I've told Idgrod of your concerns. She will look after you. Please, go back to your business." And there was Aslfur, as dutiful a steward as he was her husband. Idgrod had to smile at his patience and dedication—something she didn't often do in any other situation.

But the townspeople weren't having any of it. "We've no need for wizards in our midst!" Jorgen shouted.

"Morthal has enough problems as it is!" agreed Thonnir.

Idgrod sighed, and tried to tune out the hubbub, concentrating on the dying embers of the firepit in front of her. It would die down eventually; no one liked to argue until the end of time. There were better things to live for.

The fire burned lower.

Only when Idgrod could hear the crackling of the embers over the throngs of people outside did she finally breathe a sigh of relief. So much being said, she thought, over so little. It was putting all of Morthal on edge, and turning her gray to boot—

Suddenly, she started. Was that a scream from outside?

Idgrod listened carefully, wondering if her ears were merely playing tricks on her again. But the scream had sounded so real, and so chilling—and so _close by_—

SMACK.

The Jarl of Morthal sat bolt upright as a heavy, wet sound crashed against the timbers of Highmoon Hall. Her eyes snapped this way and that, looking for a sign of whatever caused that sound—_why was it so familiar_—

She felt a chill running down her spine.

CRUNCH.

Another noise cracked through the silence like a whip, and it was then that Idgrod recognized what the noise was—for she had indeed heard it before.

There had been a party two years ago; a formal event, hosted by the Thalmor in their Embassy in Haafingar. Idgrod had attended out of a sense of decorum—and a nagging suspicion that something interesting would happen to an otherwise boring soiree hosted by an Altmer as duplicituous as she'd ever met.

And true to form, something _had_ happened.

CRUNCH.

For all her detractors calling her a senile fence sitter, Idgrod was still very sharp for a woman her age. She had a knack for seeing what was most out of place in any given place, at any given time. And she had remembered seeing one or two people not present for most of the festivities after the business with that drunkard.

In fairness, she had no idea where they might have gone at the time. It wasn't until after the noises had already started that Idgrod began to put two and two together.

SMACK.

Screams of terror, and shouts of fury … and the wet noises of bones being pulverized into shards, sinews and tendons physically twisted apart. Armored bodies were being ripped limb from limb, slamming against wood and stone as if being swung by giants like living flails.

And those noises were getting louder.

CRUNCH.

In one swift stroke, the front door of the Hall was ripped off its hinges as a man—one of the guards to the door—flew through it. He landed directly on the fire, and yet he did not scream even as the flames began to lick the armor; a moment later, Idgrod knew why—_the man was missing his head_. Blood from the horrible wound where his neck should have been was spurting onto the fire, hissing against the embers and creating a truly horrible stench.

And it didn't stop there.

Before Idgrod could even think to react—before any of the guards inside the hall could think to draw their weapons—two more forms burst through the walls either side of the door; more human bodies, distorted and dismembered, leaking so much blood that the floor around them was stained within seconds. Idgrod could barely even recognize the faces of Thonnir and Jorgen, their bodies were so thoroughly ravaged.

Now there were different noises this time, smaller and quieter, but much heavier—and more regular as well. Footsteps, Idgrod knew—of something very strong. The guards around her had finally recovered, and were rushing to the ruined doorway en masse to fight whatever was coming for her—Idgrod felt her voice trying to form words, pleading with them all to get back, but though her mouth moved, the words refused to leave her throat—

_Where was Aslfur in all this?_ wondered the Jarl. Had her husband been able to get to safety in the face of this unthinkable carnage? Or was he—

And then something moved in the shadows beyond the blasted threshold. Idgrod, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene, felt all urge to speak leave her. Another piercing scream shattered the horrible calm of Highmoon Hall as a vast, monstrous _something_ squirmed through the threshold, filling the ruined doorway and then some.

Even before the guards charged, Idgrod knew they hadn't a prayer. She could only watch as they were routed completely; the horrible creature never seemed to move. In less than a second, the four guards in the room had been blasted back by a mighty force. Before they'd even hit the floor, the monster was upon them, darting hither and thither at speeds so unbelievable that Idgrod could only make out a formless gray blur.

One second later, the guards were dead before they'd hit the floor—not so much bodies, but piles of armor torn like parchment, shredded viscera and entrails, and the odd detached limb and head strewn about the Hall. But Idgrod did not see them. Her attention was fully focused on the horror before her as she saw it clearly for the first time—

And then it was upon her—she heard her voice from miles away, screaming in terror—

Idgrod's eyes snapped open at that moment, and she sat bolt upright in her throne with a start and a barely-concealed shriek.

It took a while for the Jarl of Morthal to come back to her senses, and longer still before she was convinced that the door to the Hall had not been broken down, and bodies of the citizens of Morthal—and parts of their bodies—were not littering the floor.

With an enormous effort, Idgrod managed to calm her racing, aging heart to a more manageable level, but the Jarl was sweating as if she'd just sprinted from here to Markarth and back again. Had she been asleep? She had not remembered dozing off at all. And if that was a dream, it had seemed so _real_ …

"Bah, it's no use," she heard someone say outside the hall. Was it Jorgen? "Old crone's probably having one of her crazy turns again. C'mon, Thonnir," he sighed. "Best we get back home."

Idgrod froze. So Thonnir and Jorgen had still been outside her door, even as she had been … no, she did not want to say she was dreaming. No dream was that detailed, and took place over that little time. Even Vaermina's powers had limitations, she was sure.

What was more, precious few of Idgrod's dreams these days ended up being reality. _This_, on the other hand … Idgrod knew that everything she had Seen just now was a very bad sign indeed. How, exactly, she could not immediately discern; her gift of precognition was an impartial one, and what it revealed often could not be determined for years down the line. But this was not some run-of-the-mill omen of bad luck and ill news to come. Even those had not been so _unpleasantly_ detailed.

No, Morthal—perhaps even all of Skyrim—was almost certainly in terrible, _immediate_ danger.

And somehow, Idgrod knew it all depended on her actions to come.

With great difficulty, she rose from her throne. "Aslfur?" she rasped, her voice almost unheard against the sputtering firepit. "Aslfur!"

At the sound of her voice, her husband and faithful steward hurried toward her, sensing the urgency in her voice even as he crossed over the threshold of the front door. "What is it, dearest?"

Almost automatically, Idgrod heard herself talking more quickly and urgently than she'd ever needed to in years. "I need you to find Gorm right now. Tell him to mobilize half of the Morthal guard and lock this hall down. I want the rest of them on constant patrol throughout the town—every house, every street, every blade of grass if need be!"

Aslfur was aghast—Morthal was a small town, but given all the strange things that went on around the swamplands to the north, their city guard was one of the most well trained in Skyrim.

Which begged his next question, "Why so many guards? Wh—?" But even as Aslfur demanded an answer of her, the man's face immediately fell as their eyes met; Idgrod knew he'd seen the mad gleam in her gaze, and figured out from there what had happened.

And sure enough, he asked softly, "What did you See?"

Idgrod would gladly have given up her special gift to give her husband the answers they both desired. "Danger comes to Skyrim," she whispered, "and it will begin in Morthal."

Aslfur pulled back. "Should we call for reinforcements? I can send Legate Taurinus out for—"

But Idgrod rebuffed him. "No, no!" she raved, waving her arms madly. "Too many will die if we do." But even as she uttered the words, a thought came to her.

"Send for a courier. Tell him that the Jarl of Morthal has a most urgent message to relay to the Arch-Mage of Winterhold," she ordered. "If we act now, it may mean the difference between a mere city and the rest of the province."

Aslfur nodded, and was gone in moments, leaving Idgrod to ponder the possibilities of the future she had just seen.

Idgrod Ravencrone was a seer, and thus not one to believe that fate and destiny were as malleable as iron and steel. Nonetheless, she was still a Jarl of Skyrim—and she would stand firm against whatever might come to her doorstep, whether it meant defying the inevitable … or accepting it.

* * *

_Meanwhile_

The Dwemer ruins of Mzurkunch—known much better among the people of Skyrim as the "Sightless Pit"—had earned the latter name for a reason. The entrance to the cave was little more than a maw of jagged, snow-covered rocks, circling an abyss of perfect blackness wide enough to swallow Grimnir and Brelyna in a single gulp.

And then there was the structure that lay alongside the pit. That was unremarkable in and of itself; at first glance, it was only a tent with nothing inside it—not even a bedroll or a pile of hay. But it was still a tent that had not been built by any race that lived on Tamriel.

_Under_ it, however, was a different story. There was another Dwarven ruin nearby, a place called Alftand, which Grimnir had had to pass through in order to obtain one of the Elder Scrolls of legend two years previously. Inside, he had discovered the hard way that the mechanical creations of the Dwemer had not been the only thing left behind by the lost race—nor, he reflected with a twinge of disgust, the _nicest_.

Seeing this tent here was enough to bring back memories of that deep, forgotten place in the world. He only hoped that it was in enough disuse to suggest its owners—and their ilk—had long since been exterminated from the cave below.

Brelyna had been studying the hole for the past few minutes, and the Dunmer looked less happy with the situation with each passing moment. "We'll have to jump inside," she eventually concluded after her analysis. "We could use rope to take us down, but with so many of us, and the sharpness of these rocks, we'd run the risk that any rope we use would be torn to shreds before we got halfway down."

"How would we leave, then?" Grimnir asked. "I'm not keen on going into someplace where I might not be coming back out."

"J'zargo may know," the Khajiit said as he stepped back into view. He and Onmund had done a little reconnoitering around the area over the past hour, just in case these supposed necromancers might have posted a guard around the place. "There is a cave just above us, close to the summit of Mount Anthor. It was not easy to get there—a dragon roosts atop the mountain now, and Rajhin was surely watching over this one, as the beast did not see us."

"We chanced a look inside," Onmund added, "and we found this big golden door at the end—definitely Dwemer design. No luck getting it open, though—the damned thing was locked tight. But I'll bet that's our way out."

"But that still leaves us with finding a way down." Brelyna sighed. "I sent a mage-light down there, but the darkness is too thick. I lost sight of it barely thirty feet down. We might as well be plunging into a pit of spikes for all I can see."

"Then perhaps we do not need to use our eyes," J'zargo purred. The Khajiit was taking a closer look at the sharp rocks that lined the edge, tapping a claw on one after the other.

Onmund's brow furrowed just enough to be visible under his hood. "What are you on about, J'zargo?" he asked.

"_Hs!_" The Khajiit held up a paw, silencing him. "Come 'round—gather around Khajiit, and mind the noise you make. J'zargo must concentrate if he is to solve our little problem."

Grimnir and the others moved closer to J'zargo, who muttered indistinctly as his eyes roved over the maw. The Khajiit aimed a paw at the flat end of a particularly large rock—it looked rather like one of the spikes that usually adorned the backs of dragons, only marginally less lethal—and rather less durable. Grimnir noticed that J'zargo's paw was wrapped in lightning magic.

Then J'zargo slammed that paw on the rock he'd been targeting, with a short, blunt "_Hyut!_" The rock cracked under the combination of the Khajiit's carefully applied strength, and the lightning it was laced with. The heavy slab tumbled downward into the ebon expanse with hardly any other sound.

J'zargo held up a paw before anyone could ask what he was doing now. As soon as he'd dislodged the rock, he tipped his ears towards the abyss, indicating everyone should do the same. Grimnir did so, hearing the Khajiit counting under his breath—and after a short while, he to hear a faint, low _sploosh_ echo up from the depths.

"Water," whispered Brelyna. "That explains why I lost sight of my mage-light." She pulled a face. "It must be filthy down there."

"But it is deep enough to break our fall," J'zargo reasoned. "The sound of the rock against the surface of the water tells this to Khajiit's ears—the bigger the rock and the deeper the pool, the deeper the sound. And the drop only took a matter of seconds—not enough time to fall too fast for even water to kill us all."

Grimnir frowned at the dark maw for a few moments longer before he made up his mind. "I'll go first," he said. "I'll set up some light for the rest of you the first chance I get."

The others nodded. Quickly, before his sense of self-preservation got the better of him, Grimnir made his way to the jagged mouth. He dared not look down—although, just for a moment, his eyes flickered to the seemingly bottomless fall below, and in that moment, he could have sworn he could see the darkness swirling beneath him, almost as if it was more than shadow and smoke … as if it was a living thing.

Grimnir shook his head, knowing he couldn't let these thoughts get the better of him. He knew he had to trust J'zargo—the Khajiit, for all his antics, was as loyal a companion as any within the College.

With that in mind, the Arch-Mage set his gaze straight ahead, away from the cave. Then, he took a deep breath—and jumped.

The fall didn't take very long. But the sheer darkness of the cave was enough to surprise Grimnir when he hit the surface with an echoing _splash_. He swore—if it was possible, the water felt even _colder_ than the air outside the cave, so much so that Grimnir was surprised the entire pool hadn't frozen over.

The chill of the water was seeping right through his robe, stinging every inch of his skin like so many thousands of fiery blades. Grimnir could hear his lungs screaming in agony—or was that his own voice, he wondered, protesting in shock at the freezing water?—as he floundered blindly in the absolute darkness of the cave, unable to tell up from down—

"_Yol … Toor SHUL!_" Grimnir coughed—unable to speak any clearer on account of the water that consumed him. But the jet of dragon-fire never came; instead, a massive bubble burst from his mouth, followed swiftly by a sensation in his throat that felt rather like downing a whole pot of hot soup in one go. The bubble expanded as it traveled further away, leaving behind a trail of near-boiling water—

Grimnir knew he had only seconds, but the sudden burst of warmth had done the trick, dispelling the chill enough for him to get his bearings straight. He broke the surface of the water with a huge gasp, gulping in several welcome breaths of air before he swam to the edge of the freezing pool.

Only when he'd hauled himself up onto the ledge did Grimnir hear the shouting of his fellow mages. "It's all right!" he gasped out, coughing from the continued chill. "Colder than a Thalmor's heart down here, but I'm still alive!"

His voice wasn't quite at full strength, but judging from the silence up above, the mages had at least heard the echoes of Grimnir's voice. The Arch-Mage clambered to his feet. "Give me a moment!" he hollered. "I'll set up some light for you down here."

And with that, Grimnir wasted no time in conjuring a host of mage-lights, spreading them throughout the entire cavern and illuminating the entire pool. It was far bigger than he'd anticipated; the Arch-Mage was inwardly grateful that he hadn't delayed any longer, or else that freezing pool might well have claimed his life.

Seven mage-lights later, a furry blur dropped down from the cave mouth in a graceful dive. Grimnir barely heard J'zargo cursing in Tamrielic and Ta'agra alike at the extreme temperature of the water. He quickly summoned a flame atronach in a flash of violet flame, and the wispy creature glided over the surface of the water with hardly a ripple. One second later, it had fished up a thoroughly soaked J'zargo, and hauled him effortlessly to the shore.

"Y-y-you c-c-could h-have t-t-told Khajiit," shivered the mage, as Grimnir prepared a weak flame spell—little more than a blast of superheated air to warm the sodden, freezing Khajiit.

"Didn't I?" Grimnir raised an eyebrow as he dried J'zargo off. Two more splashes alerted him to Brelyna and Onmund's arrival; Onmund, as a Nord, was used to the cold, and so did not shout or swear. Brelyna, however, was a dark elf, and quite used to warmer temperatures. Fortunately, by the time she let out a shriek of displeasure, Grimnir's atronach was already halfway over the pool, and managed to drag them both back to dry land before it dispelled of its own accord.

J'zargo shook himself free of the worst of the water while Brelyna dried herself off, and Grimnir tended to Onmund. "We could've done with that fire-breathing trick before we jumped," groused the Dunmer through chattering teeth. She cast a flame cloak around herself, allowing a welcome respite of warmth for everyone around her. Even Grimnir didn't mind a minute's rest time—he'd been just as cold as everyone else in there; it wouldn't do to act as if he didn't notice it at all.

By the time Brelyna's cloak faded, all four mages were dried and warm (though J'zargo's fur, mustache and all, was still matted and slightly damp) and Grimnir called an end to their rest.

"Just like before," he said as they began their journey, smoothing his robes and brushing off the last of the dampness on them. "I'll take the lead, J'zargo will bring us up from the rear. If our luck holds, we'll see the entrance to this Mzurkunch shortly—and maybe these necromancers took the time to clear it out before they made themselves at home."

* * *

After only five minutes of exploring, however, their luck took a serious hit.

The four mages had just entered another cave, even bigger than the one with the pool, and at first they'd been pleasantly surprised to see the remains of a fire and several bedrolls lying about. Then J'zargo had pointed out how little of the fire there was left—barely even ashes, and long since cold.

Then they'd gone a little further down, and seen the bodies. Three of them: hunters, by the looks of it, or possibly bandits. No doubt they'd been looking for a safe place to hide, snowstorms in Winterhold were notoriously brutal. But instead they'd found trouble—and none of the four mages was happy about it in the slightest, once they'd found out why.

Brelyna inspected one of the dozens of arrows that was peppering the bloodied bodies—a crude shaft of purplish-black wood with a forked tip. "Damn it," she sighed. "Definitely Falmer—and definitely recent. The blood hasn't even coagulated."

Once a proud civilization of snow elves that dwelled throughout Skyrim, the Falmer had suffered a fall from grace like no civilization before or after. After Ysgramor had driven them underground in retaliation for the atrocities of Saarthal, they had turned to the Dwemer in the hopes of sanctuary. But they had been betrayed—enslaved, blinded … and worse. Now, with the Dwemer gone, the Falmer were left to breed in the deep places of Skyrim … just another manifestation of the darker side of Skyrim's bloody history.

"Could be poison," Onmund suggested; Falmer were known to poison their weapons, and recent history had told the mages how fond the Falmer were of a particular poison that prevented the blood from clotting and sealing off wounds. "Some of those mages from the Synod had the same thing happen to them in Mzulft, remember?"

J'zargo had plucked another arrow out, and was sniffing the tip suspiciously. "No," he said. "The blood still flows, but the poison is old."

"Old enough that they might not still be around?" Grimnir wondered out loud.

The Khajiit had no reply.

"Fair enough," said the Arch-Mage. Lightning sparked on his fingertips, and magic flared in the other mages' hands as well. "Keep your eyes peeled for the _slightest_ sign of movement. Brelyna, can you muffle our footsteps at all?"

The Dunmer looked pensive. "I could, but there's no guarantee they don't already know we're here. Your Shouts _do_ tend to echo a lot," she added, with a half-annoyed look at Grimnir, who grit his teeth at his error from before.

The next several minutes were some of the most tense that Grimnir had ever lived through, including that short-lived peace conference he'd convened between the Empire and the Stormcloaks. The icy walls of the cave were playing tricks on their eyes again, and more than once Onmund was convinced he'd seen a Falmer preparing to jump out at them. Nor did it help that the snow—while muffling their footsteps well enough—concealed its own dangers; Grimnir inadvertently stepped on a cleverly placed pressure plate in the middle of a snowpile, and nearly found himself skewered by a trio of rusted spears.

"Maybe you'd better let me take the lead this time, Grimnir," soothed Brelyna as Grimnir scrabbled up from where he'd fallen backward in shock, still swearing. "You've obviously got a lot on your mind with all this M'Alga business, and—"

"Don't say that name!" hissed Grimnir, and Brelyna recoiled. Immediately, the Arch-Mage felt ashamed of the outburst. "I'm sorry, Brelyna … but that name just feels like a curse right now. Every time I've read it, heard it, whatever—our luck starts to take a turn for the worse. And don't mind me taking the lead," he added. "I know you don't want me dead, but I don't want any of you dead on my watch, either."

Shortly thereafter, the mages rounded a bend, and Grimnir felt his mood take an upturn in spite of what had just happened. The tunnels of rock and ice ended here, replaced by smoothly carved stone and pipes of golden metal. The years had not been kind to this ancient hallway; snow and wind had eroded much of the stonework considerably, and the entire passage looked as though an enormous earthquake had turned it onto one side.

But it was definitely Dwemer design.

"Mzurkunch," Grimnir whispered, almost reverently, before stepping closer. "Stay close to me, now. If we—"

"_K'sharraj!_"

Grimnir whirled around at the sound of J'zargo's curse, and was just in time to see the Khajiit hit a ferocious right hook on the wrinkled, humanoid figure that had somehow appeared _right behind them_. The figure snarled once as it recoiled from the impact—only to be cut down by a firebolt right in its mouth from the startled J'zargo.

The Khajiit's fur was standing straight on end when the others grouped around him. "Are you all right?" Onmund asked.

J'zargo was still breathing too heavily to properly respond, but he nodded.

Grimnir peered at the slain figure, and grimaced. It was a Falmer, no doubt about it: their time as the Dwemer's slaves had left them a sad shadow of their former prosperity. Bald, eyeless, naked but for a filthy loincloth, and bent nearly double, the Falmer were little more than creatures now. Only the large, pointed ears and pale, slippery skin served to link them to the snow elves of old.

Onmund was speaking rather more loudly than usual out of agitation. "Where did that come from?!" he demanded.

"Must've been a lookout," said Brelyna. "We've got to be more careful now—the Falmer have much better ears than we do. They have to know we're here by now."

Grimnir swore, but he knew Brelyna was right; though the Falmer were blind, their ears and noses were much more effective to compensate. It was said they could hear heartbeats from across a whole room, and smell the fear in any adventurer brave enough to intrude upon their hives.

They hurried down the corridor with slightly more urgency than before—only slightly, because the passageway quickly turned into a near-vertical drop, with no discernable way down but for a pair of ledges that might as well have not been there at all.

But between them and the nigh bottomless drop below them, Grimnir would have the ledges any day.

"J'zargo, take the lead," he muttered—the Khajiit was far more adapted to these sorts of obstacles than anyone else. And indeed, he wasted no time in leaping out for the narrow ledge of debris, catching himself just in time.

Grimnir would go next. He waited until J'zargo had steadied himself to catch him—the Arch-Mage was quite a bit heavier than a Khajiit. Then, before his fear could get the better of him, he jumped. Grimnir felt only an instant of weightlessness, followed by a sensation roughly like his organs sinking into his feet—and then he felt the rough, but no less welcome embrace of J'zargo as his feet found footing.

Brelyna and Onmund brought up the rear. Grimnir heard each of them muttering some brief prayers before they too made the leap. He quickly reached out for Onmund, steadying himself in the same way as J'zargo, and felt the Nord crash into his stomach with a force that drove the wind out of him—but his grip, and Onmund's footing, held fast.

There was a brief moment's rest after J'zargo had made sure Brelyna's crossing went without incident—and then it was time to do the same thing again. Grimnir was astounded that they'd encountered only the one Falmer so far—he would have thought that they would try to impede their progress at this critical point in time, charm or no charm. It was fraying everyone's nerves, he could tell, and not just his; J'zargo nearly lost his grip on Grimnir when he'd jumped to the next ledge below, and the Arch-Mage's boots grappled vainly with thin air before J'zargo was able to haul him to safety. Fortunately, that was the only incident of its kind here, and the four mages continued on.

Immediately after this, they happened upon a pit lined with carved ramps and platforms. A nasty, cloying smell was drifting up from that pit—one that Grimnir knew all too well. But his attention was diverted elsewhere, as another obstacle had presented itself to the mages: a long Dwemer pipe, just thick enough around as any one of them.

"It's our only way through," Brelyna muttered after some quick calculations. "Dwemer metal's very strong, so I don't see why it can't hold all four of us at a time. But that could leave us open to attack." Her brow furrowed. "Yes … we'll cross two at a time. You and Onmund can go first," she said, pointing to both Nords, "seeing as you're the heaviest of us. J'zargo and I can stay back and cover, just in case."

Grimnir couldn't have thought of a better plan himself, he admitted, and so he and Onmund quickly dropped to all fours and began to shimmy over the pipe. It was very slow going; the Dwemer metal, while certainly strong enough to support their weight, was very slippery from moisture. Grimnir swore as his hand slipped over a particularly wet patch of the pipe; he made a mental note to see Tolfdir about more alteration lessons when this business was over.

Just as he'd dismounted the pipe and landed upon the platform, it happened.

Grimnir was only aware of a pale-and-dark-purple blur out of the corner of his eye before he whirled around. An armored Falmer, its horrible face partially hidden by a helmet that looked the head and jaws of an insect, lunged for the Nords with a snarl and the raised claw of an axe.

"_Tiid!_" barked Grimnir, thinking quickly, and the Falmer immediately slowed in mid-leap. Grimnir knew he had only seconds—time would not flow at this slow a rate for long. He maneuvered himself behind the Falmer so that the cave-elf's back was to him, then let fly with a crack of lightning. Time resumed its normal flow just as the Falmer's face morphed into an expression of surprise—and then it toppled over the edge, snarling all the while.

The snarling continued echoing long after the Falmer had fallen—too long, Grimnir thought. And then it hit him. "Onmund, I need you down here now!" he called out. The fellow Nord had just dismounted from the pipe, looking no more the worse for wear than Grimnir.

"I can cover Brelyna and J'zargo," Onmund said. "Go for the archers and mages first, right?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth," said Grimnir. "I'll handle the rest."

The next wave of attackers, when it came, was surprisingly sparse in number—though no less tough to kill. Falmer mages (Grimnir wondered how a race so broken and feral could still know how to use magic), along with a few shield-bearers, were protecting the archers (Grimnir further wondered how the blind Falmer could use a bow and arrow so effectively, after one whistled past his ear). They were extremely well coordinated for Falmer; this struck Grimnir as slightly odd. But it could be worried about later on; J'zargo had almost crossed the pipe, but Brelyna was still a little more than halfway over—and close on a dozen Falmer were bearing down upon them all.

"_Fus … Ro DAH!_" bellowed Grimnir, and he felt a passing wave of satisfaction as most of the Falmer were carried away in the tempest of his Shout. Half were killed instantly when their bodies smacked hard against the rough rock walls of the pit. A few were left feebly stirring on the ground, limbs sticking out at odd angles and black blood leaking from a dozen wounds. Onmund picked these off easily.

A fireball from behind them signified that J'zargo had joined the fight. He looked shaken by the sudden attack, but unhurt. The flaming missile exploded in the midst of the remaining Falmer, burning one to a crisp and sending another off into the abyss. That left only two enemies behind—a mage brandishing frost and lightning alike at the three mages, and a greenish-purple insect the size of a large dog, covered in spiked chitin and dripping with venomous slime: a chaurus.

The chaurus alone seemed to have noticed Brelyna had still yet to make her way down to the rest of the mages, possibly because it was the only one of them to actually have functional eyes. It skittered and chittered up at the Dunmer, spitting gobs of that acidic goo at Brelyna. Some of them hit the Dwemer metal, which hissed and bubbled, leaving behind ghastly scores.

Grimnir cast a series of lightning bolts at the pair of monsters, which bounced and ricocheted among the Falmer and her pet. The chaurus shrieked as the lightning burned through its chitin, roasting it from the inside out and killing it instantly. The Falmer turned to the remains of the insect, distracted—and one last fireball from J'zargo finished her.

Onmund caught Brelyna with a grunt. "You all right?" he asked.

"I'll live," Brelyna replied with a nod, though she was holding a hand full of healing magic over her right shoulder; when she pulled away, Grimnir just barely caught a mass of slightly bumpy flesh, and the sleeve around the wound had been partially dissolved. The chaurus must have grazed her with its venom, he guessed—but it could have been much worse.

"I'll have Colette see about the rest of this," Brelyna reassured them. "I healed the worst of it, and I can fight just as well as the rest of you now." She smiled grimly. "Now let's move on," she said, setting her jaw. "There's something about these Falmer that's bothering me—and the sooner we get down to the reason why, the sooner I can breathe again."

And without waiting for a reply, she set off down the passageway. So quick was her stride that a surprised Grimnir needed a few seconds to catch up with her.

"What were you on about with the Falmer?" he wanted to know.

Brelyna glanced at him, and then behind him; J'zargo and Onmund were apparently close enough behind the pair that her words warranted a softer tone of voice. "I dawdled on that pipe back there for a reason—besides that damn chaurus," she said. "I was trying to study the Falmer while you battled them—how they moved, how they fought."

Mystified, Grimnir pressed on. "Why?" he asked. "This isn't exactly the best time for field research."

Brelyna turned around so forcefully that J'zargo skidded into Onmund, who had stopped abruptly in response. "Didn't you wonder why those Falmer were supporting each other the way they were?" she asked. "Archers being supported from the front line—with the warriors of said front line being supported by battlemages?"

The Arch-Mage did indeed remember being intrigued at this, and nodded.

Brelyna dropped her voice so low that J'zargo had to cock an ear. "Grimnir, those Falmer back there moved with exactly the same kind of efficiency that I'd expect from the Imperial Legion," said the Dunmer. "In Alftand—and Mzulft as well—they were nothing more than a rabble of feral creatures. This, though … this has _intelligence_ behind it."

She leveled her gaze at Grimnir. "That is _not possible_." Her eyes suddenly flashed. "Unless."

Grimnir didn't like the sound of that. "Unless what?"

Brelyna was beginning to fidget now—an obvious sign that her mind was racing, Grimnir knew. "There are only two possible options," she said. "One is that the Falmer are beginning to recover from their experience at the hands of the Dwemer. Four thousand years is enough for any kind of change to happen, big or small."

Onmund gaped. "If that's true," he said breathily, "it could be one of the biggest discoveries in the last century!"

Brelyna managed a small smile, and Grimnir couldn't blame her: it was all too tempting to have one's name immortalized in such a way, and Brelyna, as a part of House Telvanni hoping to soar high among their ranks, was no exception.

But the expression did not last. "But there is a problem with that. Have you noticed how few bodies we found lying around this place?"

Grimnir only had to remember for a few moments before he realized she was right. The Falmer's love for brutality was legendary—the bodies and remains they'd seen in Dwarven ruins before only made this clearer. But aside from those few bandits they'd found near the cave entrance, there'd been nothing—not even a hint of a struggle aside from the one the mages themselves had created only minutes ago.

"Exactly," Brelyna nodded solemnly, noticing Grimnir's expression. "And that brings me to the second alternative. I don't think these Falmer are acting of their own free will. And I think we all know why."

There was a very long pause.

"You're suggesting the most notorious, most dangerous necromantic cult in the world—one which, I might add, hasn't been publicly seen in _two hundred years_—is behind all this?" Onmund asked. Every ounce of his voice radiated disbelief.

"How do you know this?" J'zargo finally spoke up. His whiskers were standing on end from all the revelations.

"I don't," said Brelyna, as if the Khajiit had asked how she could predict tomorrow's weather. "But the timing is too convenient. Up until Grimnir interrogated that necromancer, I didn't know this place had a second name—I just thought it was the same old Sightless Pit. I'm not sure anyone else knows about the name _Mzurkunch_, except for the cult we encountered."

"And you don't think they were deliberately trying to throw us off?" Onmund looked skeptical.

Brelyna shook her head. "Necromancers aren't known for taking secrets to the grave—or leaving them there, for that matter. If they were, they wouldn't be called necromancers, now would they?"

No one had any answer to that.

* * *

They saw no further patrols of Falmer for some time as they continued on their way through Mzurkunch. Grimnir suspected the mages had made so much noise on their way down that they'd roused every last one of them in this section of the ruin.

The four mages walked on in relative silence until they came to an enormous set of double doors, crafted out of more of that Dwarven metal. Part of the cave ceiling had collapsed on the staircase leading up to it, crushing an armored steam centurion beneath the weight of the jagged rocks.

"Glad we didn't have to fight that thing," Onmund whispered in awe as he stared at the hammer-hand on the _animunculus_, larger and heavier than a blacksmith's anvil. They'd encountered a working centurion in Alftand once, and were not keen on having to repeat the experience in a hurry.

He and Grimnir pulled open the massive doors with some difficulty—the hinges were almost frozen solid, though nothing that a few lightning bolts couldn't break apart. The doors creaked open with a groan, and the mages passed through without a sound.

Almost as soon as they entered the ruins beyond, though, a truly horrible smell assaulted them. J'zargo, as his nose was more sensitive than the others', nearly retched on the stone floor; only the fear of being caught by the source of the stink kept him from doing so on the spot. Even Grimnir had to work hard to look as if the smell didn't faze him.

"I think we're getting close to the main hive," Onmund whispered, pinching his nose. No one else spoke a word from then on out; plenty of adventurers had died because they'd stirred up a Falmer hive at the worst possible time.

A familiar clicking noise was coming from the corridor ahead. Grimnir saw Brelyna mouth the word _chaurus_, and immediately brought lightning to bear. From the sound of the clicks, it was much bigger than the one they'd seen earlier. And it was—as they rounded the corner, the mages immediately spotted a chaurus the size of a saber cat in the next room. A Falmer shaman was leading it along by a crude leather leash slung across the insect's mandibles.

Of the two, the chaurus was more dangerous; in addition to being the Falmer's eyes, it could also be an alarm; their chitters and shrieks were enough to send any nearby hive into a frothing frenzy. Therefore, the mages would deal with that first.

The assault, when it cane, was quick, efficient, and over in the blink of an eye: Grimnir signaled once, and immediately he, Onmund, and Brelyna fired blasts of lightning at the massive insect. The shocks burrowed through the chaurus to its core, and the sheer amount of lightning flash-burned it alive. Shards of chitin flew in all directions as the repulsive bug exploded in a shower of blackish-green goo. A large number of them embedded themselves in its Falmer handler, who tumbled to the ground from the sheer number of wounds alone. A firebolt from J'zargo finished her off one second later.

That was the easy part.

As they had anticipated, that had been more than enough noise to stir up what sounded like the whole entire hive.

Growls and shrieks aplenty came from the other end of a long, cylindrical tunnel at the other end of the room, leading to a natural cave beyond that was shrouded in mist. A quick Shout from Grimnir—"_Laas … yah nir_"—was enough to reveal well over a dozen angry Falmer bearing down on them from beyond.

"Runes!" Brelyna called out. Grimnir understood; elemental runes were essentially magickal traps placed on a surface, where they would remain until stepped on by an enemy. The smaller the rune, the more damaging could be caused; the larger, the more spread out the desired effect would be. Neither particularly mattered in this situation, Grimnir knew. Brelyna was going to use the Falmer's own chokepoint against them.

Quickly, each mage cast a rune along the stone tube: J'zargo fire, Onmund frost, and Grimnir lightning. Brelyna's rune wasn't too familiar to Grimnir—the Arch-Mage, as a Dragonborn, might know much more about the Voice, but the Dunmer, as a Telvanni, knew much more about magic as a whole.

She finished casting her rune right as the first of the Falmer crested the hill beyond, and bore down on the mages with feral hatred in every step. The rest of the cave-elves were clustered close beyond—their mistake. The runes had been laid such that by the time the first one detonated, the last of the Falmer had entered the tunnel. Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

One by one, the runes detonated—Onmund's first, J'zargo's next, then Grimnir's, and finally Brelyna's. For a moment, the entire tunnel was awash in so many explosions of fire, ice, and lightning that the Falmer were lost from view completely. When the smoke had cleared, Grimnir noticed that more than half the Falmer had been blown apart in the spectacle; their viscera and blood coating the tunnel in a sticky black film. The remnants still looked alive, but they remained unmoving—and it was only when Grimnir got closer that he was able to see why.

"Paralysis spell," he muttered. So that was what Brelyna's rune had been; he'd have to have a talk with her later on about the magic taught by the Telvanni mystics. He gave an approving nod at the Dunmer, and Brelyna beamed.

It took less than half a minute before J'zargo was able to dispose of the remainder of the Falmer, and they continued on.

A short walk took them up a long flight of rock-hewn stairs; the cave beyond was either so full of moisture, or so large, that most of the way up was shrouded in greenish mist. But the layer of fog was thin, and ended abruptly.

And what lay beyond transfixed the mages completely.

* * *

Deep inside the earth—deep below even the deepest delvings in the city of Alftand, there was a cavern of immeasurable size. Blackreach, it had been called—a cave the size of a hold of Skyrim, where rested the largest cities of the Dwemer. It was, and remained to this day, one of the most impressive sights in the entire province that Grimnir had ever seen.

The cavern here reminded him of that forgotten, alien place. The ceiling of the cave—a hundred feet out of his reach, was covered in moss that glittered a dozen shades of green, blue, and purple. More clouds of that greenish mist clung close to that moss, so thick in some places that even its glow was completely obscured. All that was missing, Grimnir thought, were the gigantic mushrooms and tendrils as high as any keep in Skyrim.

But that wasn't what held his attention.

He saw more Falmer and chaurus than ever before standing guard atop the ruins within this cavern: a vast, squat structure filled with archways, towers and pillars. A light source that Grimnir couldn't see was shining from high above them, presumably at the apex of this structure. But more importantly—and more bizarrely—he could see _humans_ mixed with these Falmer, apparently unnoticed by the cave-elves.

And what was more, these humans appeared to be wearing black robes—with a _very familiar_ dark red skull pattern.

This was especially perplexing. "We'll have to sneak our way across," Grimnir told the rest of the mages. "There's too many to fight right now. Falmer and chaurus are one thing—but this is too much."

There were grudging nods of agreement; even J'zargo wasn't cocky enough to try and take on that many enemies at one time. And so the mages began an agonizingly slow trek around the far side of the ruins, away from certain death—and hopefully toward the answers to all their questions.

Onmund voiced the first of these questions in a hissed whisper that, nevertheless, seemed to echo all around them. "What are necromancers doing in a Dwemer ruin?"

"And how do these Falmer not notice them?" J'zargo added.

Those two questions were answered about a minute later, as they crested a mound of dirt large enough to where they could see the topmost level of the ruins. The source of the light was, in fact, an enormous sphere of it—twice, perhaps three times as big around as the Eye of Magnus, undulating and pulsing all the while. Grimnir could barely make out something in the exact center of this sphere of light; it looked like some kind of machinery. He pointed to it with two fingers, indicating that he wanted to take a closer look; they did so.

Onmund's look of confusion had by now morphed into an ugly grimace. "There's some illusion magic at work here, and no mistake," he noted, as they crept as quietly as possible along the edge of the cave. "That sphere must mask the necromancers' presence."

"Which could let them control the Falmer from inside it," said Brelyna, her gray face brightening in understanding, "without any fear of retaliation. Still … what in Azura's name is going on here?"

"Let's find out," Grimnir said. "There's a pavilion up there we can head up to. It'll take us on the main path to the top level. As soon as we get there, I'll cast a detection spell; see what we're dealing with."

It was very slow going, more so than they'd anticipated; a Falmer guard, followed by his faithful chaurus, had entered the tower just as the four mages had gotten halfway there. They'd been forced to duck under a nearby archway to evade detection from the chaurus' beady eyes; and only when the clicking of its pincers and chitinous legs upon the stone had faded completely did anyone think to even breathe again.

A tense minute later, they'd reached the pavilion, and the quartet wasted no time in moving on—they could not afford to be spotted by the guard and his pet should they make their way back. But they were close now—close enough to where they could see a number of figures in black robes, standing in a circle with hands held high, around the machinery Grimnir had noticed earlier.

The Arch-Mage frowned. What he had taken to be some unknown machine was in fact nothing more than a jumbled assortment of pipes and boilers, about as long, high and wide as he was tall. Steam was hissing from the pipes, forming more of that green mist Grimnir had seen earlier.

Something wasn't adding up here, he thought. It was time he took a closer look. "_Laas … yah nir_."

As his vision separated itself into one blob of darkness and the multiple points of light of the Falmer, the chaurus, and the necromancers accompanying them, Grimnir concentrated as best he could upon the top level of the ruins. He could see the aura's necromancers—around a dozen of them, protected by a trio of heavily armored Falmer. But there was something else—something faint … but something _big_, almost the size of that machinery, right in the middle of all those warlocks. And where he was seeing that _something_ was …

"It's in those pipes." Grimnir didn't realize how quickly he was speaking until J'zargo crept closer to him, ears cocked. "Something inside … _alive_. Powerful."

"A sacrifice?" wondered J'zargo.

"No," answered Grimnir. "It's not cognizant—it's too faint." That wasn't true, though; in the time it had taken him to finish that sentence, the massive aura had doubled in its brightness, and wasn't too far from matching the signatures of the necromancers around it in luminosity. "But it's getting there … "

He broke off suddenly. One of the necromancers was speaking now—just loudly enough for them to hear the individual words.

"We weave your bones with our bones."

J'zargo's eyes suddenly narrowed, and his ears perked. "Another Khajiit?" he said, suddenly alert. His eyes, now narrowed to slits, roved this way and that in the darkness for roughly a second. Then, without warning, his paw shot out, pointing at one of the necromancers nearby. "This one may see our M'Alga, friend!"

Grimnir felt his breath catch in his chest. "A Khajiit?!" he repeated, confused—the denizens of Elsweyr were not known for participating in most rituals of any description, necromantic or otherwise. But even as J'zargo shushed him, the Arch-Mage's eyes were following his outstretched claw, alighting on the necromancer at the forefront of the circle … and an unmistakable, furred, swishing tail.

_Looks like I was right._ "I think we might have just found our first breakthrough," Grimnir said to J'zargo, feeling his heart begin to race—at last, at least one of his questions was about to be answered.

"There is more," said the Khajiit. "In my tongue, the Ta'agra, the _M_ in her name would suggest she is unsullied—a _virgin_." He looked at Grimnir, eyebrows raised. "And is not virgin blood a necessity in the art of necromancy?"

"We weave your blood with our blood." murmured the warlocks.

Onmund's skeptical look was back upon his face, although—Grimnir could not be sure because of the shadows being thrown on his face from the gigantic orb of light—he almost looked more worried than anything.

"I'm not so sure this _is_ necromancy, J'zargo," the Nord said. "Not in any literal sense, at any rate. I've never heard of any necromantic ritual needing Dwarven machinery.

"You're right," Brelyna said in a small voice. Her eyes were glowing with the energy of another scrying spell. "They aren't trying to reanimate life in there—they're trying to _create_ it!"

"It's not just that." Onmund looked genuinely fearful now. "Haven't you been listening to that incantation? It almost sounds like they're sacrificing themselves to create whatever's in there!"

"_Laas … yah nir_!" Grimnir Spoke again. Immediately, he knew Onmund's hunch was right. Before, he'd thought it had simply been the massive aura in the middle that was increasing with each passing moment. But no—it was more than that. As that aura grew brighter and stronger, the others around it grew dimmer … _weaker!_

Onmund's voice was beginning to shake now. "Have you taken a look at just how many cultists are over there?"

Grimnir was able to count them all out before the effects of his Shout faded from his eyesight. "Looks like … ten."

"Exactly," said Onmund. "What's more, two of them have _tails_—this M'Alga, and there's an Argonian, right over there."

He pointed to a necromancer at the far right of the circle, and Grimnir realized he was right; he could just barely see the tip of a spiked, scaly tail protruding from that figure's robe.

J'zargo had a hand over his eyes, and was counting out the necromancers under his breath. "This one sees one tall, another short, and a third broad." He frowned. "A high elf, a wood elf … and an _Orc?_ Most unusual."

Unusual, indeed, Grimnir thought. Altmer were to be expected here. But Bosmer were not known as sorcerers, and Orsimer even less so—their bodies were ill-adapted for magic on this scale. So why …

It was Brelyna who figured it out; she let out a huge gasp that caused everyone else to forget about the scene in front of them, and start looking out for any Falmer coming toward them.

"That's what's going on" the Dunmer hissed. "Each of those necromancers represents one of the civilizations that inhabits Tamriel. Khajiit, Argonian, Altmer, Bosmer, Orsimer … _every single sentient race of man, elf and beast-man is here, inside this ruin!"_

Grimnir felt a block of ice sink deep into his stomach as the ramifications of Brelyna's discovery sank in. A hush fell over the four mages, just in time for them to hear the necromancers intone, "We weave your flesh with our flesh … and we weave your soul with our souls."

Onmund looked close to fainting with fear. "If they're putting their own selves into this … " he whispered, "body, mind … and _soul_ … "

Grimnir was already moving forward—lightning on his fingers, the Thu'um on his lips, ready to explode out of his body with the first chance he got. There was no time for debate, no time for further analysis—only time for _action_.

"We have to stop this ritual _now_."

* * *

"By the magic bestowed upon Mannimarco, who darkens the world e'en in death," chanted the necromancers, "we command thee: take thy superior form and rise!"

The orb flared suddenly, and for a moment Grimnir was blinded by the intensity of the light. He heard screaming, and an ominous sizzling, hissing noise from ahead of him.

He was out of time.

_"Fus … Ro DAH!"_

The Falmer never had a chance. Grimnir's Shout billowed over them, passing through their purplish chitin plate like a keen blade through the north wind. Then, they were gone—smashed against the far wall of the cave, looking nothing so much like cave-elves as piles of viscera and gore that just happened to be wearing primitive armor.

That just left the necromancers.

Already Grimnir knew the ritual was in motion. This was not like the situation with Isabelle; here, he could not even hope to understand the Dwemer technology that had been incorporated into this arcane ceremony, let alone reverse the process.

The sphere of light was shrinking now—but it was still growing brighter. And that wasn't all: as if tied by invisible ropes, the necromancers involved in the ritual were slowly being dragged into it—into the machine. The Argonian that Onmund had pointed out had just now crossed the threshold of light. He gave a wail of pain—was Grimnir seeing things, or was the lizard-like being smiling under his hood?!—before his body, robe and all was disintegrated into fine ash. The ash swirled about, as if it was being tossed about in a whirlwind, before being sucked into the machine as if it had never existed in the first place.

A man and a woman—the latter's skin looked dark enough to make her a Redguard—followed suit not long after. Then, one by one, all of the other warlocks began to dissolve in the ethereal grip of the sphere. In every case, their screams lasted much longer than their physical forms.

Suddenly, Grimnir was distracted by a sound like coughing from just off to his left. He whirled around to see the Khajiit—M'Alga—being pulled inexorably toward the all-consuming orb, just like her fellow necromancers. It took the Arch-Mage some time before he realized that the quasi-feline being was actually laughing at them.

"You arrive … too late, mages … of Winterhold," hacked the Khajiit. "The ritual … cannot be … stopped now … "

"No!" J'zargo spat. "It is too late for _you_, M'Alga! The _dro-m'Athra_ shall not be disturbed today!"

Before he'd given it any thought, Grimnir had extended his arm. "Take my hand, M'Alga! You can still be separated from this ritual! You can still tell us what you were doing with—!"

**_"She is not M'Alga."_**

Grimnir leapt backward in utter surprise. _What?!_

The voice had come quite literally from out of nowhere—and yet it seemed to come from every direction. So unexpected was it that Grimnir completely forgot about the Khajiit being devoured piecemeal before his very eyes. In fact, he and the other mages were so focused on searching for the source of this voice that they never heard the sorcerer's final yowls and screeches of pain, torment … and satisfaction of whatever plan had been set into motion.

Suddenly, the orb of light began to shrink and fade—more rapidly than the last rays of the sun as it disappeared beyond the horizon. Grimnir was able to see a familiar purplish-black gem atop a tiny pedestal in the midst of all those pipes, gleaming temptingly at him—as if daring him to remember where he'd seen it before.

And just as Grimnir's hands _twitched_—just as the thought crossed his mind to retrieve the black soul gem that contained the essence of Isabelle Rolaine—everything went wrong.

There was a colossal explosion. Grimnir felt himself being thrown backward as if by his own Unrelenting Force, skidding a long way across the smooth, polished floor, and roaring in pain as his body crumpled against a carved pillar with enough force to crack the half-eroded stone. Stars danced in front of Grimnir's eyes as he tried to stand up. There was a sharp pain in the left side of his head; he wondered if maybe he'd taken a wound to the head.

Grimnir saw a dim light from off to his left, where a dark form was stirring—it was Onmund; he was already getting to his feet. Brelyna, too, was clambering to her feet, as was J'zargo. The Dunmer was the least shaken of the group; Grimnir guessed she'd had the foreknowledge to erect a ward at the moment of the explosion.

"Everyone all right?" he called out hoarsely; his throat felt sore. J'zargo raised a thumbclaw in affirmation; Onmund nodded as well.

Brelyna, however, gave no answer. "_Oh, gods … _" she whispered, eyes locked on something off to Grimnir's right. Slowly, deliberately—as if some part of him didn't want to find out—the Arch-Mage followed her gaze, towards the wreckage of those pipes and boilers, the remains of the ritual they'd failed to interrupt …

And he finally stared, appalled, at the source of the aura that had been languishing inside that Dwarven machinery.

Had the four mages not seen the bulk of this ritual, and who had been sacrificed to complete it, Grimnir would have labeled this … _thing_ as a monstrous perversion, a necromantic insult to everything deemed right and natural. But knowing what he knew, he could see enough of this creature to deduce what had gone where, and how it had come to be.

It was easily half as high again as Grimnir, perhaps even taller, and at least three times as broad. But this only added to the _wrongness_ it gave off like a stink, and nowhere was this more evident than its broad, gray arms, wholly out of proportion to the rest of its slender body. The iridescent skin rippled with Argonian scale at the bicep and shoulder, thin hairs at the forearm and spine that could have passed for Khajiit fur, and slabs of Orcish muscle throughout.

On its long, thin hands were ten scything claws, again much like a Khajiit's, but longer, heavier and far more brutal in purpose. The claws on its bellows-sized feet were no less identical and deadly, digging into the half-eroded stone with unnatural strength. And the tail of the beast, as long as its whole body, swung this way and that, and snaked about its owner as if it was a living thing all its own. The dozens of spikes that lined the tail were as long and thin as daggers, scoring the stone with each _swish_ of the fearsome thing.

And the _face_—only necromancy could give something a face that _terrifying_, Grimnir knew. The long, earless head once more looked Argonian, but was permanently twisted into a catlike snarl. Dozens of misshapen, tusk-like teeth protruded from the narrow, low-slung jaw. The almond-shaped eyes—almost elf-like, the way they seemed to pierce through the mages like spears—glowed with dark fire and malicious intent as it stared down at them all.

Grimnir felt those reddish-black eyes glance over him, and he felt a trembling deep inside him as he realized what the necromancers had created here: a primal killing machine … a living weapon.

He felt a chill.

Next to him, J'zargo was completely petrified. Never—not even during the foul sights they'd had to brave in the bowels of Labyrinthian—had Grimnir seen the Khajiit this way. His eyes were wide, his whiskers drooped almost straight down, and his ears were flat against the back of his head.

The sheer sight of the monster had reduced him to a terrified, cowering, wet-behind-the-ears kitten—and Grimnir couldn't blame him.

"Nine take me … " Onmund had seen the horror now; he was white in the face, more aghast than anyone else simply from sheer terror. "What _is_ that thing?!"

The lipless mouth opened, still hissing and frothing with necromantic energy, and spoke in a low voice that shook the mages to the bone.

_**"I am M'Alga,**_" rumbled the monstrosity. _**"****I am **_**all**_** of you … yet **_**no one**_** your world has ever seen."**_

Throughout the shock of this encounter, something occurred to Grimnir: _I am all of you_. And now he understood: the necromancers here hadn't just been attempting to create a living weapon—they'd been hard at work in creating the ultimate avatar, incorporating the essence of every cultured creature that called Tamriel home, creating something entirely new—_no one this world has ever seen_.

And they had succeeded.

Grimnir felt another shiver run deep through his spine as the one called M'Alga stood up, drawing himself up to his full, towering height before the mages. _**"I am **_**everywhere**_**,"**_ he growled, _**"yet **_**nowhere**_** you will ever find me."**_

The grayish-green, scaly skin of the monster flickered suddenly, and for a moment Grimnir thought it was a trick of the light, a shadow from the wisps of necromantic magic that still swirled around M'Alga.

And then Brelyna shouted, "J'zargo! Grimnir!" and it hit the Arch-Mage almost as soon as M'Alga began to fade from their sight, right before their eyes.

_He was turning invisible_.

How this could be, he was not certain—he had not seen M'Alga cast any spells whatsoever. But even though his shock had amplified another notch at this latest of unforeseen developments, somehow Grimnir was able to keep a clear head through it all. There were ways to see what normal eyes could not.

As soon as Brelyna had shouted, therefore, he and J'zargo both sprang into action.

At this point, M'Alga was already camouflaged completely from their sight—but the Khajiit's vision was much more acute than even Grimnir's eyes, and much more discerning than any scrye. A thin film had closed over J'zargo's eyes, and the mage was roving this way and that, searching for any sign of the monster.

_**"I see all things before me … "**_ M'Alga declared, his voice seeming to come from every direction, echoing in the cavern as ominously as any thunderstorm.

"I cannot find him!" J'zargo shouted, and Grimnir paused. It wasn't often that the normally cocky mage referred to himself in the first person—and worse still; the times that he had when Grimnir had been around had all happened on the outset of something very bad.

But he pushed the thought aside. "_Laas!_" he barked, and felt the crimson haze of the _Thu'um_ rush over his eyes for the third time.

_**" … and I see nothing behind me,"**_ finished M'Alga, _**"but absolute **_**ruin**_**."**_

Grimnir paid no heed to the taunting; he could sense that the creature was nearby, he swore he had almost felt a breeze several times, as if M'Alga had passed by him with inches to—

He whirled around as it hit him. There—a massive red blur was traversing the bridge ahead of them—!

"He's heading for the lift!" Grimnir shouted, and he sprinted for the place where Onmund had fallen earlier, a pavilion with a lever that could call an elevator—possibly back outside, into Skyrim.

They couldn't let that happen. "After him!"

But Grimnir already knew that M'Alga had too much of a head start. He had disappeared up the lift by the time the mages had thought to pursue him—he hadn't even bothered to use the lift proper; instead, M'Alga was actually _climbing up the gear tracks of the elevator_ as if it came naturally to him!

Onmund kicked at the lever, bringing the circular platform to life with a _whoosh_ of pistons and a harsh scraping of gears, and seconds later the lift began to carry them upward as they continued their chase.

But again, it was futile; M'Alga was simply too quick and too agile, and the elevator too slow. Grimnir and the others shot at the creature with all manner of spells, but M'Alga evaded them all—at one point, he even leapt from one track to the next simply to dodge a salvo of fireballs from J'zargo. But he still kept on climbing—until, within minutes, he had disappeared from their sight—and well out of the range of their magic.

Grimnir pounded a fist into his palm. "_Damn it_," he growled, as the lift continued its maddeningly slow ascent.

M'Alga was gone, as quickly as he'd arrived in this world.

And once more, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold was no closer in figuring out the mystery that surrounded him.

* * *

_Next chapter: Will Idgrod's warning be enough against the Black Worm's deadliest weapon yet?_

* * *

**A/N: One of these days, I'm going to learn how to boil down my chapters. That was actually one reason I laid out groundwork for this story in the first place; I wanted to use it as practice for writing shorter submissions.**

**… Doesn't seem to be going too well so far. But I'm still going to keep trying my best.**

**Until then, have a new chapter, and a new villain. I've been looking forward to writing him more than you might think. Read, rate, and review if you so desire, and I hope you enjoy! - K**


	5. IV

IV

How long the journey upward took, Grimnir did not know, and neither did he care. The Arch-Mage was seething from M'Alga's escape to such an extent that he was oblivious to anything else going on around him. The pain in his ear was still stinging, even after he'd heal it; yet another scar he would carry.

But where Grimnir hurt most was his pride.

It was hard to believe, he thought, that less than forty-eight hours ago, he'd been delving into a ruin, searching for a rumor, a shred of a whisper, anything to save the College—and the world at large—from the meddling of the Thalmor. Now, it felt as if he'd repeated that same chain of events today—but with far more devastating repercussions.

Because this time, Grimnir felt quite sure that he had failed.

When the lift finally shuddered to a halt, the mages wasted no time in finding a way out. The Dwemer doors that Grimnir presumed J'zargo and Onmund had spotted before now lay in ruins, ripped completely off their hinges by the unnatural strength of M'Alga. A small cave lay beyond, heavy with snow and slush, just thick enough to betray the footfalls of the monster.

But Grimnir did not get his hopes up; the weather of Winterhold was a fickle force indeed, and even before he heard the howling winds and blowing snow, he knew that there was no chance of tracking M'Alga now. A full-force storm was now blowing through the region; barely a few seconds after emerging from the cave, Grimnir was forced to conjure some wisps of flame from his hands so as to keep himself warm.

Meanwhile, Brelyna's eyes were glowing once more, and she swore. "I can't see him," she whispered to Grimnir, and spat back at the cave, the wad of phlegm blown off course by the wind and clipping J'zargo on the ear. "He's gone."

"Then we make for Winterhold," Grimnir said eventually, his voice heavy. "We must inform the Jarls at once."

Onmund was aghast. "With this civil war going on?"

"Damn the war, Onmund," Grimnir cried, "and damn the Jarls for the war! They must be made to see reason!"

Even as he ranted and raved, though, Grimnir inwardly knew he was going to have a tough time convincing everyone who held any measure of power in Skyrim. The Jarl of Winterhold would be the worst of all; Korir had never forgiven the College for the part they had allegedly played in the Great Gollapse, the disaster that had swallowed half of Winterhold into the Sea of Ghosts some eighty years ago.

"What do we tell them?" J'zargo shouted over the wind.

"The truth," answered Grimnir. "We need to send couriers to every keep and village in the province—beyond if need be. We have to tell them that the Black Worm has returned to Skyrim."

* * *

_Winterhold_

"I'm sorry—what?!"

Korir's voice was heavy with disdain. Grimnir heaved a mental sigh—he'd known the stubborn bastard was predisposed to react this way to anything that so much as concerned the College.

Next to him, Brelyna was repeating the situation as patiently as possible to the Jarl, his wife, and his child—though Grimnir could see the Dunmer's brow twitching. He took a step away from the elf; she was already becoming irritated with Korir's attitude. It was only a matter of time before she blew up like one of J'zargo's own scrolls.

"There was an extremely dangerous cult of necromancers less than a mile from your doorstep," Brelyna explained once more, sounding like an exasperated mother trying to tell her son that two and two did not make five. "They let loose a creature into Skyrim; a monster like nothing we've ever seen before. We have no idea where it is, and that's why we need you to put this city on high alert. It could be bearing down on us any moment as we speak!"

"What evidence is there of that?" Thaena, Korir's wife, spoke up from next to her husband. She did not sound any more convinced than Korir, but Grimnir heard the slight tremor in her voice; Thaena was just as concerned about Winterhold as the rest of them.

"History tells us all the evidence we need to know," said J'zargo, tail swishing madly in the air. "The last time that the Black Worm reared its head was two hundred years ago, as the Oblivion Crisis raged on throughout the continent. The Worm King himself, Mannimarco, attacked the Mage's Guild of Cyrodiil, and was at the center of many of the Worm's deeds in those days."

"And now they've returned," Grimnir spoke up. "It stands to reason that they will attack the only magickal institution in Skyrim. And if the College of Winterhold falls to them—"

"—then Winterhold will endure!" Korir barked. "If Winterhold can endure the folly of your College eighty years ago, we will outlive these necromancers as well! I told you once before, _Master Torn-Skull_—I don't care how many Colleges you build. I don't care how much more of this town crumbles into the sea! Winterhold _will_ carry on, and _I_—" he thumbed his chest to emphasize the word further still—"will make sure of that!"

There was silence as his words rang throughout the hall.

Brelyna was the first one to break it. Her voice was dangerously soft. "So in other words," she hissed, "you don't even care, do you?"

Korir stood up from his throne. "Even if I wanted to stoop that low!" he bellowed. "Maybe you mages haven't looked at the world around your College, but there are bigger things going on in Skyrim! There's a bloody _war_ going on outside this door, for the love of Talos! The Stormcloaks may be gaining ground after taking Whiterun, but the Empire is still a force to be reckoned with! I will not risk that war coming to what's left of my city simply because of one of _your_ mistakes!"

Brelyna let out a snarl that made even J'zargo take a step back. It was very likely she would have had more to say had not Onmund intervened, throwing an arm across the Dunmer just as she was about to storm up to the throne and give the Jarl a considerable piece of her mind.

"There won't _be_ a war for much longer if this monster is left unchecked!" shouted Onmund, "_because there won't be anyone living left to fight it!_ Do you really think these necromancers _care_ about some petty civil war?! All those soldiers out there—Legion and Stormcloak alike—they're just bodies. Bodies that can be desecrated, dug up, and used in ways that would give your son night terrors for the rest of his life!"

Now it was Thaena who leapt to the defense. "Leave Assur out of this!" she demanded, clutching her son so quickly that the boy winced in her grip.

"As if the necromancers would?" retorted J'zargo, a raised eyebrow punctuating the snide tone in his words.

Grimnir had had enough of the sniping. "_Lok … Vah KOOR!_" he roared.

There was an enormous BANG as the Shout boomed throughout the hall. Windows rattled, sconces flickered, and all inside fell silent as the thunderous noise dissipated.

It was this, perhaps, that seemed to finally bring Korir to his senses: knowing just who was now in charge of the College he so despised, and knowing, too, what that person had done for the world in the matter of a few short years.

With just the slightest bit of trembling, he sat back down upon his throne.

"I will talk with Ulfric Stormcloak," he said, "and see about sending a detachment of his troops to protect the city."

"That won't be enough—"

Korir cut off Brelyna with a wave of his hand. "I can spare no one else at the moment," he continued. "I must look to my own—and you, I think, must look to yours."

Grimnir had no choice but to stand down; he wasn't enough of an idiot to set upon a Jarl. "Let's go," he muttered, and the four mages left Korir's presence without a further word—though Grimnir saw Brelyna shoot a look of pure venom at the stubborn ruler, and her bad mood did not desist by the time they re-entered the raging blizzard outside.

"Can you _believe_ him?!" she shrieked over the wind and snow, taking out her frustration on a rock in her path. The stone clattered off the walls of Birna's Oddments, causing the shop's eponymous owner to hurl a string of curses at them as she passed by. "He is one of the most _stubborn_ people I've ever _met!_"

"We can't let the actions of one man drive us down," Grimnir said calmly. "Korir knows that if it wasn't for the College, there wouldn't be a Winterhold—and after what just happened, there might not have been anyplace else left to live. And in one way, we succeeded."

"How so?" Brelyna asked, still simmering.

"Whether or not Korir listened to our warning, we warned him all the same," replied Grimnir, as they crossed through the stone gateway leading to the College grounds. "Now all we need to do is to get the word out to the rest of the province. I suggest we act quickly, before M'Alga makes sure there isn't a province left to hear us out."

They crossed the bridge. "And on that note," the Arch-Mage added, "I ought to see where Savos kept his ink and quills. I never thought I'd be taking up writing so soon into this new office … "

* * *

_To the Jarls of Skyrim, and Those it May Concern,_

_I realize that this correspondence comes in the midst of difficult times. Nevertheless, I feel this is a matter urgent enough that it supersedes all else. An ancient and powerful necromantic cult has unleashed a weapon into our province—one with the potential to cause untold devastation to our way of life._

_I speak for the whole of the College when I urge you and your people to remain vigilant against this menace. There is nothing to be gained from wishing ill will on the Empire or the Stormcloaks, especially when there are those who would seek to use the results of this ill will as an advantage for their own cause._

_Therefore, I request that all forces stand down, and withdraw to their respective Holds to defend against the threat imposed by the Order of the Black Worm. The College will be doing everything in their power to destroy this weapon. We do so in the hopes that Skyrim may see the error of its ways, and come together in unity once more._

_In fellowship, I am,_

_Thane Grimnir Torn-Skull_

_Archmagus of Winterhold_

"There we go," said Grimnir some time later, as he completed the last of the letters, and handed them to Brelyna. "I hope they aren't too long-winded."

"No more than any other Jarl," the Dunmer remarked dryly as she squinted at Grimnir's untidy cursive. Her mood had died down considerably since their return, but she still gave the letters a hard glare as if imploring them to burst into flames upon their delivery.

"I notice you're not signing yourself as 'The Last Dragonborn,' though," Brelyna noted. "Considering what you've been doing for Skyrim, you'd think that one title would be a lot of weight to throw around. Just about anyone can be a Thane these days, and in case Korir didn't get through to you earlier, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold isn't a position that's taken very seriously in these parts."

Grimnir grimaced. He knew Brelyna was probably right—the times she _hadn't_ been could be counted on one hand. Balgruuf the Greater, back when he was still Jarl of Whiterun, had almost literally thrust the title of the city's Thane in his face after Grimnir's defeat of the dragon Mirmulnir outside the city walls. Still, though, he'd had a suspicion that the peace talks at High Hrothgar two years ago had gone the way it had mostly because he was a Dragonborn.

"And I'd like to grow out of that, to be frank," Grimnir said as he voiced that suspicion, while Brelyna listened to him. "I shouldn't have to rely on my being Dragonborn all the time—what if the situation comes where that won't help me? Besides," he added, "no one's fool enough to think those talks would have stopped the war completely, Dragonborn or no." He sighed. "It really is the season unending … "

Brelyna frowned. "Sorry?"

"Never mind," Grimnir waved off, "just something Master Arngeir said to me."

He rubbed his aching wrist—writing a letter that long was _not_ something Grimnir was used to doing on a regular basis—never mind copying said letter upwards of a dozen times—and he doubted he ever would. "Take these to Faralda," he said, "and have her stop by the Frozen Hearth before she takes her watch tonight. With any luck, we'll have couriers delivering them out by the next day. That should be more than enough time for them to protect against M'Alga.

Brelyna nodded, and strode out of the Arcaneum with the sheaves of parchment under her arm.

"When you come back, find J'zargo and Onmund," Grimnir called after her. "We need to make a response plan of our own." The Dunmer waved back to indicate she'd heard.

As soon as she was gone from his sight, Grimnir closed his eyes, and began to think.

M'Alga was a problem—that much was abundantly clear. No one had ever seen anything like him, and as far as Grimnir knew, no one had ever even attempted to _create_ anything like him before. Interbreeding with other races was not unheard of; the Bretons of High Rock, indeed, were an entire culture of men descended from Nedes, the first Men, as well as Aldmer, the first Elves.

But those were only two races—ancient races, to be sure, but _two_ nonetheless. It was far more difficult to cross ten or more, as had been done with M'Alga; even the races of Elves carried major differences from one another. Grimnir could only assume that the Dwarven machinery inside Mzurkunch had played a part in M'Alga's creation, working around the numerous insurmountable difficulties of such a task, and streamlining the process at an untold rate, from a matter of generations into a matter of _minutes_.

Then it hit Grimnir—if the Black Worm had found out how to perfect this new, insane method of crossbreeding, what was to stop them from repeating the process in Dwarven ruins elsewhere? Construction of the machine aside, all that seemed to be required for this ritual was raw material, and the incantation Grimnir had heard them use.

There was the filled black soul gem, presumably to contain M'Alga's soul. Grimnir thought with a pang of poor Isabelle Rolaine, and of Ranmir. The mages had gone to see the drunkard shortly before their audience with Korir. Onmund had been gentle, but truthful, yet it was all in vain; upon learning the way in which the spirit of his beloved was now being used, Ranmir howled even more disconsolately than before. By the time the mages had left him, assuring that they had given Isabelle's remained the dignified burial they deserved, Ranmir wore a look on his face that suggested he had lost all will to live. No one—inside the Frozen Hearth or out—had seen him since.

And then there were the necromancers—living sacrifices, Grimnir now knew. Whether they were part of the Cult, and therefore fanatical enough to … _no_, he thought; it was more likely that they'd been bewitched. They'd done so with the Falmer; what could stop them from using it on more innocent people, using their flesh and bone in place of their own? Grimnir felt his fists clench at the cowardice involved in such an act, and he cursed Mannimarco's spirit for allowing such to flourish in the world.

_Keep on breaking it down_, he told himself; Grimnir had learned many times beforehand that sometimes, going for the root of the problem wasn't the best solution. Could he have defeated Alduin without the knowledge of the Greybeards, of Paarthurnax, Odahviing, and the Elder Scrolls themselves?

Perhaps, Grimnir pondered, perhaps. But _would_ he choose to do such a thing, if ever the opportunity came again?

So absorbed was the Arch-Mage in his thoughts that he did not immediately hear the tromping of three pairs of well-worn boots come up from behind him. He only noticed J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund when they had pulled up chairs at the table around him and sat down; their expressions concerned, but with a trace of excitement to them.

He took a moment to pull himself out from his thoughts, and cleared his throat. "So," he said. "Here's the overview. The Order of the Black Worm just let a monster loose in Skyrim, and we have no idea where the hell M'Alga could have gone. We need to find out how to find him first—and how to kill him before he kills anyone else."

"He can't have gone very far," said Brelyna immediately. "M'Alga might look stronger than any man or beast I've ever seen, but he was put together with necromantic energy. Unless you have the right amount of it, and if it's balanced the right way, then it dissipates after a while. Phinis said in his last lesson that too much of that energy can cause the corpse to explode—but too little can make it break down, like snow drifts in the wind."

"Which would probably mean that M'Alga was put together with just the right amount of it," J'zargo said, picking at his mustache with a claw.

"Or that there could be additional sects of the Worm Cult, like the ones we encountered in Mzurkunch and Hob's Fall," Onmund added, "to put M'Alga back together if he did break down. They could be all over Skyrim, too. It'd be impossible to get rid of them all without alerting at least one of them."

"But since we don't know if there are any sects like that," said Brelyna, "I think we ought to assume the worst: that M'Alga is an undead thrall with enough necromantic energy in his body that he can virtually last forever. As much as I hate to say it, hunting down any other sects of the Black Worm is going to be a waste of time and resources." She folded her hands. "If we're to deal with this, we have to deal with M'Alga."

"What about his controller, though?" Onmund wanted to know. "Atronachs and thralls and familiars are all supposed to have a master, right?"

"Atronachs can go rogue," said Grimnir shortly. "And this is the Black Worm we're talking about, Onmund. Mannimarco delved deeper and further into the bowels of necromancy than any mage before, during, or after his time. M'Alga may very well have _no_ master in that sense."

"So he's a lich, then?" Onmund was looking confused and terrified in equal measure, and Grimnir couldn't blame him; everything he and the rest of them had seen over the past few weeks—including that business with the Eye and Ancano—amounted to magic they would never have dreamed possible.

Brelyna looked thoughtful. "That could be," she nodded. "I'm holding out on passing judgment until I see anything that could be used as a phylactery—something M'Alga had close to hand that he could use to store his soul. But there's two things that jump out at me here; the first is that M'Alga's a composite being—I don't think it's just the one soul of Isabelle's that makes up his spirit. And even Mannimarco couldn't put more than one person inside a soul gem.

"Which leads me to my second question," said Brelyna. "I didn't see anything on M'Alga's person when he left. Not even a shred of clothing. So even if he's using just that gem with Isabelle's soul as a phylactery somehow—let alone ten more like it—where's he keeping them? I don't remember seeing M'Alga holding anything in his claws while he was climbing up the lift."

Grimnir privately admitted he'd like to find out himself. "We can speculate on that later," he coughed. "Right now, we need to find out what M'Alga is capable of. Necromancers don't breed one being from nearly a dozen different species just for the hell of it. So," he clapped his hands, "thoughts?"

Onmund thought. "Well, it was certainly easy to see where the Argonian and the Orc went," he eventually said. "If I hadn't seen anyone else get absorbed into that machine, I'd have thought M'Alga was half one, half the other. Nothing but scales, claws, and muscles."

"That doesn't explain why he suddenly just turned invisible, though," Brelyna told him. "I had my eyes on him the whole time before he vanished, and I didn't see his hands cast any kind of spell."

"Perhaps it was not his hands that cast it, then," mused J'zargo. When he noticed the questioning stares from everyone around him, he went on, "You do not need to use your hands to Speak, yes?"

Grimnir saw J'zargo was looking at him, and nodded—though he wasn't sure where the Khajiit was going with this. True, he was a clever mage, but sometimes this cleverness created an annoyingly superior air about him.

"Neither does any other Nord with a voice," J'zargo said with a shrug. "One would simply need to speak with the magic behind his voice, and those who would see him as an enemy would run from him like terrified kittens." He picked at his mustache again. "Do not the tales of your times tell of how the enemies of Nords would hide in fear of their Voices?"

Grimnir gave this some thought, and realized with a start that J'zargo was right. And then he remembered the chill he'd felt in Mzurkunch, when seeing M'Alga for the first time, how Onmund—normally so stoic and courageous, if a little bullheaded—had become flat-out petrified as he too beheld the horror.

"Are you saying that M'Alga has that same exact magic inside him?" Grimnir said incredulously. "He has that same voice—_my_ Voice?!"

J'zargo shook his head. "Not yours in particular, no. _You_ were not sacrificed, and perhaps that is fortunate. But yes, Khajiit would imagine that M'Alga is just as able to sway our minds with words as any other Nord like you. Not that he would need such a thing," he added. "This one thinks M'Alga is monstrous enough to be feared as it is."

"It isn't just that, is it, though?" Brelyna had gone the shade of white that Grimnir often associated with the most unpleasant of discoveries. "Nords also have incredible resistance to the cold of this place. And then there's the Dunmer. Even before the eruption of Red Mountain, the dark elves were always resistant to extreme heat."

"And you're telling us that M'Alga can shrug them off just like the rest of us?" Onmund looked in disbelief. "Could that extend to magickal attacks as well?"

"If it does, then Azura help us all," Brelyna said, her voice low. "Because it wouldn't stop there. I'd bet you anything there was a Breton who got sucked into those pipes. They can shrug off just about anything magickal out there. I've even heard of some clans that can leech magic from enemy attacks, and add it to their own."

"By the Divines … " Onmund now looked completely lost. "So M'Alga might as well be immune to any kind of magic we can throw at him, then." He slumped in his chair, utterly defeated.

"Lightning might work against him," Grimnir said. "And a simple change in how I cast it could help me drain his magicka even further, keep him from casting anything too nasty."

Even he wasn't convinced, though—he'd only said that out of an attempt to force Onmund out of his funk. He had not, however, heard of anyone living in Tamriel who could just shrug off a thunderbolt like it was nothing, so that was a every small bit of encouraging news.

Brelyna huffed. "So we might know how to break through M'Alga's defenses," she said, scribbling notes onto a sheaf of parchment. "But what can we do to stop him breaking through ours? More to the point, what's M'Alga's body even capable of?"

Grimnir considered this—the claws were obviously for more than merely show, but … "I don't think we'll know for sure until we can actually see him in action. He certainly looks physical enough, though—he's probably closer to a berserker than anything else. That's something Orcs are known for, isn't it?"

"I don't know any Orcs besides old Urag," Brelyna said shortly, referring to the master of the Arcaneum. "That said, I wouldn't want to find out from him—he'd fly into a rage if you so much as nudge a book the wrong way."

"Or if you talk behind his back!" growled a familiar voice that made them all jump; apparently Urag gro-Shub had been browsing a section of bookshelves that blocked him from view.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times: keep your voice down in my library!" the librarian grunted, his strained tone owed partially to his perpetually bad temper—but more, Grimnir thought, because of the immensely heavy load of books currently in his hands, concealing his green face completely.

"Sorry," Onmund apologized, his voice a hundred times smaller. Grimnir, however, was looking at Urag with a furrowed brow. For all his bluster, the old Orc could be a helpful soul when he wanted to; from a certain point of view, in fact, Urag had helped point him towards the Elder Scroll that had served Grimnir so well. He had later donated that Scroll to Urag's library as a token of thanks for the part the librarian had played. The Orc had noticeably warmed up to Grimnir after this—which, in other words, merely meant that he antagonized Grimnir _slightly _less than he did everyone else at the College.

Urag deposited the mountain of books on their table with a grunt, revealing a permanent scowl that even his bushy white beard couldn't hope to hide. The table groaned under the weight of the tomes, and Grimnir quickly steeled his knees under the rough wood to keep the furniture from collapsing.

Onmund peered at some of the faded titles. "_Orcs of Tamriel, Vol. 3 … Guide to the Empire, A Compendium … Children of the Sky_ … What's with all these titles, Urag?"

Urag cricked his back, a noise that made Brelyna wince. "You young'uns have no idea how loud you are in this place, do you?" he asked irritably. "It's the same with all of you. But don't think I tell you lot to keep your mouths shut in my library just because I like the peace and quiet." He frowned. "Well, I do—but that's not the only reason.

"Anyway," he growled, "have a look through those. Who knows, reading a book for once might help you people out. And they had _better_ be in better shape than they were when I gave them to you," he shot a look at the mages, eyeing J'zargo particularly scathingly as the Khajiit picked at his ear with a claw, "otherwise that nasty business with Orthorn won't just be a one-time deal."

Onmund, who'd been in the midst of opening one of the most moth-eaten books in the pile, failed to repress a shudder.

Brelyna, however, had already finished skimming one book, and was browsing another so rapidly that her eyes looked as though they were vibrating in their sockets. A look of dawning comprehension was spreading across her face, and immediately Grimnir leaned forward, interested in hearing whatever she might have to say.

"This could help," whispered the Dunmer. "These books are all about the different races and cultures that live in Tamriel! Breton, Argonian, Khajiit … even the Imga?!" She widened her eyes in disbelief. "This could give us the answers we need, Grimnir! Somewhere in these books could be the secret behind M'Alga's power!"

The Arch-Mage felt a smile stretch across his face. Given how much had happened in the past few days, it felt very painful. But at that moment, he did not care. "Thanks, Urag," he said as he turned to the librarian, intensely gratified. "Thanks for helping us out on this."

The Orc snorted. "Don't be so quick to thank me," he said shortly—though Grimnir could have sworn he saw his tusks twitch in a small grin. "If it were anyone else but you, I'd have put those books back where they belonged. Besides, I hear things in here, and what I've been hearing is that the College could be facing even more trouble than last time with that stinking elf. And I'm not having the Black Worm turn my pride and joy into a damned _abattoir!_"

He grunted. "And what do _you_ want, eh?!"

Confused, Grimnir moved as if to answer his question, but paused when he noticed that Urag seemed to be looking not at him, but _past_ him. He whirled around, and found a most unexpected sight before his eyes: a scruffy-looking man, panting and gasping for breath, with an enormous burlap sack stretched to bursting at the seams. The way it hung over one shoulder told Grimnir that this was a courier.

How he'd appeared in the Arcaneum without anyone noticing was a mystery—in Grimnir's experience, they always seemed to pop up when least expected. That aside, however, he had never heard of a courier being allowed onto College grounds before; usually they would prefer to remain at or around the Frozen Hearth—or inside the Jarl's Longhouse if it was official business—and wait for their marks to come to _them_. So why—?

"I've—been looking—for you," the courier continued to pant, turning to address Grimnir as he continued to clutch at a stitch in his chest. "Got something—I'm supposed—to deliver—your hands only. Let's see—"

The hand that wasn't occupied with the stitch now darted into the bag over his shoulder, searching and milling through its contents almost independently of itself. The Arch-Mage heard hundreds of jangling noises of metal against metal coming from inside.

"We don't normally let couriers into the College, do we?" Grimnir asked of Urag.

The Orc looked put off by the sight as well—something that unnerved him even further. "Couldn't tell you," he said brusquely. "We didn't get many deliveries back when Savos was in charge. Personal safety concerns, I think he might've said once. But the parcels we did get weren't nearly as direct as _this_."

"Here we are," the courier suddenly said, producing a tightly furled scroll with an official-looking seal and handing it to Grimnir. "Message from Morthal—Jarl Idgrod herself. Confidential. Matter of state security, she claimed. Paid me a High King's ransom to get this delivered to you_ personally_."

He patted the jangling bag, which Grimnir now understood to be full of not only letters, but also more septims than he'd ever seen in one place—including the hoards of several dragons he'd slain in his time.

"That's it for me—I'd better get going," said the courier, departing with a jaunty salute and (despite the considerable weight of his baggage) a spring to his step that Grimnir guessed must come with unexpected windfalls of that size.

Brelyna had gone very quiet, and the look that passed between the four mages was one of mutual confusion. "She couldn't have—not so quickly!" Onmund was only able to say.

Grimnir had crossed paths with the Jarl of Morthal once before, but had made little more than idle conversation at that one party he'd helped to make so memorable. Nevertheless, he had seen a strange glint in the woman's eye, one that ought not be there for anyone so—supposedly—infirm and old of age.

And he'd come to hear the stories about her as well—how she could see things, event that had not yet come to pass. Grimnir had had enough experience with the Elder Scrolls to not discount the power of prophecy—but Idgrod's power was little more than fortunetelling, nothing like the impartial predictions written in the Scrolls.

Yet the timing of this was too convenient, he knew. If it were any other Jarl …

Then, quite suddenly, as if he was following orders, Grimnir took a finger and slit the wax seal, unrolling the scroll upon Urag's pile of books. He began to read out the spidery writing inside the letter to the mages around him:

_Dragonborn,_

_We have only spoken once before, and I wish there was more time to do so, but unfortunately I fear I do not have much time left—I can only hope this letter finds your hands before it is too late._

_Something stirs in the swamps beyond my town—something of great power and evil, and in my heart I do not think we in Morthal have the strength to stop it._

_I wish I could tell you more about what my Eye has Seen of the times to come ahead, but I cannot delay any longer. Please, Dragonborn, make haste to Morthal as soon as you can. If we are lucky, I may tell you more then._

_If we are not … then give dear Sorli my blessing, and Divines protect us all._

_In life and death, I remain,_

_Idgrod Ravencrone_

_Jarl of Morthal_

Grimnir looked up from the letter, his mind racing as quickly as his heart.

"This cannot be coincidence," J'zargo whispered, whiskers standing straight outward and eyes wide as septims after hearing Idgrod's strange message. "She knows about M'Alga. Maybe not as much as we do … "

"But it could be enough," Grimnir finished. "But why not tell us in the letter, if … "

A small squeak drew the mages' attention to Brelyna. Grimnir's stomach clenched; the Dunmer was white in the face again.

"I just figured something else out," she said, "and you're not going to like it at all."

Even as he motioned for Brelyna to go on, Grimnir was dreading the answer. "Morthal may be just the beginning for M'Alga. Look where it is in Skyrim—it's within arms reach of three different Holds—the Pale, Whiterun … and Haafingar."

Grimnir was ready for it, but the lead weight that slid into his chest at the mention of Haafingar still felt most unpleasant. "Solitude," he realized, his voice suddenly ten times thicker. "M'Alga's heading for Solitude!"

"It's worse than that," Brelyna said, shaking her head. "Do you remember what just happened up there? The merchant who was assassinated at her own wedding? Her funeral's going to be taking place within the walls of Skyrim's capital city—and guess which one of her relatives is going to be there?"

The lead weight in the Arch-Mage's chest suddenly felt as though it had dissolved into corrosive acid. He and the three mages shared a look of horror as they realized at the same time just who M'Alga might be targeting.

"The Emperor of Tamriel … " Onmund looked ill. "Grimnir, what in the _world_ have we gotten ourselves into?"

Grimnir did not immediately answer; the acid in his stomach had worked its way into his throat, choking the breath and words in his windpipe. But something else had taken hold of him, something stronger and colder than that smothering fear: a steely resolve … a sense of duty that he had certainly not possessed before his time at the College.

Somehow, immediately, he knew what he had to do.

"I'm going over there," he said, departing from the table. "I've made things worse, I have to do what I can to right this wrong!"

J'zargo sprang to his feet, holding out a paw. "But—!"

"No, J'zargo," Grimnir rebuffed him. "This isn't your mess to clean up. And all three of you are more valuable here and alive, than you are with me—and _dead_. I can't take any chances; I have to go to Morthal myself."

His eyes flicked to Brelyna. "Go to Tolfdir," he said quietly, "and tell him to convey an emergency session with all the College staff at first light tomorrow morning. If I am not back by then, tell Tolfdir from me that he is to be the new Arch-Mage of Winterhold."

The mages' eyes widened. Onmund was the first to speak after several moments of stunned silence. "You make it sound like you're not leaving that place alive!" he spluttered. "And even if you do, it's a full day by horse to Morthal, and another day back!"

In spite of himself, Grimnir smiled, showing his slightly yellowed teeth in a grin. "Horses need roads," he told Onmund simply. "But I don't need horses _or_ roads."

The last of the three mages he saw before turning on his heel and sprinting for the nearest staircase was their collective look of realization—and their subsequent excitement. He thought he might have seen J'zargo bolt after him, perhaps as if to see the ensuing spectacle, but a faint scrape of wood on stone told Grimnir the others had stopped him. Perhaps that was wise, he thought; he was skeptical that he trusted anyone else to ride him at present.

Grimnir climbed up two more flights of stairs; then, just as he was starting to feel winded, threw open the door at the end that led to the roof of the Hall of Elements. There was nothing here, save for the results of centuries of spellwork that scarred the stones beneath his feet—a testing ground, he knew, for all the Arch-Mages that had come before him, and the magicks created by them that defied all explanation.

But for all their history, there remained one magic that these stones had yet to feel—a magic that they had never heard before, and might possibly never again.

With every last ounce of breath in his lungs, Grimnir roared to the heavens.

"ODAHVIING!"

The single Word echoed throughout the swirling storm around him. Grimnir watched the horizon, and waited—one minute, two minutes, three … The Arch-Mage hoped he would come when called; he was compelled to, after all—but he had no way to get to Morthal quicker … and even then …

And then he heard it, faint upon the scream of the wind: a low, bellowing roar.

Suddenly, a gigantic scarlet shadow swooped down upon the roof of the Hall, seemingly out of nowhere. It soared high above Grimnir, hovered on a thermal, and landed mere feet away from the Arch-Mage with a blast of wind from its enormous wings, without making so much as a scratch upon the stone with its heavy, jagged claws.

"You called, _Dovahkiin_?" spoke the dragon, in a deep rumble that seemed to shake the earth even in a whisper.

Odahviing—for that was his name—had been instrumental in Grimnir's campaign against Alduin. The crimson dragon had been trapped in the great chains that had once imprisoned Numinex in Dragonsreach keep. Grimnir had made a deal with him, to set Odahviing free in exchange for carrying him to the Dragon Cult fortress of Skuldafn, where rested the only way to slaying Alduin for good. Odahviing had complied, believing Alduin to no longer be worthy of holding claim to be the strongest of dragons; after Alduin's fall, he had pledged himself then to Grimnir, and placed his name with the Arch-Mage, to be called when needed: the greatest sign of trust a dragon could give.

Grimnir brushed snow off the spines lining Odahviing's head. "We must go to Morthal," he said, his voice now taciturn and no-nonsense. "Fly as hard as you can, my friend—there is no time to lose."

"_Venne miraak_," rumbled Odahviing in agreement, dipping his head so as to allow Grimnir to climb on. He grimaced as he did so; Odahviing was exceptionally spiky, even for a dragon; the spines along his back were twice and thrice as long as any greatsword, and certainly much tougher. The scales of his neck, however, were much smoother and smaller, and Grimnir now straddled these, holding on to several horns of the dragon's head so as to stabilize himself. No stranger to riding on a dragon's back, Grimnir then prepared a flesh spell to protect his bare flesh from the screaming, stinging winds.

Then, he felt a swooping sensation deep inside his stomach as Odahviing spread his wings, and lifted off from the College with the force and speed of a fallen Daedra. The air was colder than before, and the winds blew harder than ever.

But Grimnir had little time to worry about the weather; Odahviing was Speaking, and Grimnir recognized enough of the Words to immediately hang on to the dragon for dear life.

_"Zol mul, Dovahkiin! __**Wuld … Nah KEST!**__"_

Grimnir only managed to clamp his hands round his scaly neck before the world around him exploded in a blur of light and sound.

* * *

The first time Grimnir had flown on the back of a dragon, he'd had the relative luxury of time, and Odahviing's flight had been about as leisurely as a flight on his back could be. He had even allowed Grimnir to admire the scenery several times along the way to Skuldafn; Grimnir had not much approved at the time, owing to the fact that this "admiration" consisted of many aerials and airborne stunts from the proud dragon. He had been quite green for the remainder of the journey, and he'd stumbled from Odahviing's back on very wobbly legs.

For this flight, however, there was no time to gaze at the blurred landscape below them—not that Grimnir wanted to try; he doubted there was much to see right now. At least Odahviing seemed to understand his urgency; he wasn't bothering with any stunts this time. But the sheer speed he was flying at—aided by the winds that the dragon had called with his Voice—was not much better for the Arch-Mage's constitution.

In what felt like no time at all, the eastern border of Hjaalmarch Hold had burst into view. Grimnir breathed a sigh of relief as they slowed down, and his insides began to settle down into their usual state. He chanced a look down, and frowned.

They were hundreds of feet up, far out of reach for most arrows, but Grimnir thought he could see something odd at the foot of the mountains they were passing—the same mountains, he noted, that formed a natural barrier around Labyrinthian. Many forms were moving along the road: small and squirming, and instantly recognizable.

The only question was: why?

"Land along the road there!" he hollered to Odahviing over the rushing wind. "There's a whole bunch of people below us. And it looks like they're heading away from Morthal!"

A slight deviation in his flight path was all the reply Odahviing gave him. Seconds later, they were descending much more rapidly. Grimnir thought he heard screaming as they barreled downward, but he wasn't sure if it was the wind, the people below, or his own.

And then, quite suddenly, Odahviing touched down with a landing that nearly unseated the Dragonborn. Grimnir was only just able to regain his bearings when he noticed close on to a dozen people close by, scurrying to the opposite side of the road, looking terrified.

"What's going on here?" he asked—taking care not to be sick in front of all these people—at the same exact moment as a booming voice rang out, "What is the meaning of this?"

Forgetting his weakened stomach, Grimnir whirled around in the direction of the voice so quickly he cricked his neck. A white-haired woman with a severe look was plodding towards them—plodding on account of the sagging cart she was wheeling behind her, with no need for a horse.

"I was just passing by," Grimnir said, indicating Odahviing behind him, "and I saw all of you out on this road. I was wanting to know why." Now that he took a closer look at them, however, he noticed that the woman wasn't alone; just about everyone here was laden down with luggage and a great deal of personal belongings.

"I'm Sorli the Builder," the woman introduced herself. "I work Rockwallow Mine in the Stonehills just past here. And I already know who _you_ are," she added, her eyes furrowing, "and I doubt you of all people were 'just passing by.'"

Grimnir had no time for verbal sparring. "I was summoned by Jarl Idgrod," he said. "And now I think of it," he added, as a now-familiar name in the ruler's letter surfaced in his mind, "her summons mentioned _you_ personally."

He had expected confusion to appear on Sorli's weathered face, or perhaps even a faint note of pride—but certainly not a note of panic and fear.

"The Jarl's the reason we're all out here," she told Grimnir. "All these people are from Morthal. The city is being evacuated as we speak."

"What?!" Grimnir was flabbergasted—_Morthal, evacuated?!_ "Why?"

"I don't know," Sorli said, "and I don't intend to go back and ask her. Idgrod was very insistent I get all these people into the Stonehills as quickly as I could. I'd never have believed she could act so frantic before—not even with those visions of hers. If I didn't know her better, I'd say she was fearing for her life."

The tone of her voice told Grimnir that Sorli was no more a believer in Idgrod's prowess as a seer than he was—yet the hesitancy in her words suggested she might be coming round.

"I'm afraid you might be right," he murmured. "Where's the Jarl now?"

Sorli thought for a small moment. "Last I remember, she was still in Morthal. What she's still doing there, I don't know. But the rest of her family's already been sent up to Solitude. I don't much pity them, I'll tell you what, but with everything that's been going on up there, I—"

But she broke off and did not finish her sentence—for Grimnir was already long gone.

* * *

"Odahviing, scout on up ahead!" Grimnir was speaking very rapidly to the dragon as they made for Morthal; Grimnir on foot, Odahviing flying just alongside, skimming the snowy ground with mere feet to spare. "Be ready for a fight at a moment's notice."

"_Geh, thuri,_" boomed the dragon, and rose higher into the air, turning slightly northwest en route to Morthal.

Meanwhile, Grimnir knew he had to be quicker than ever before, and to that end: "_Wuld … NAH!_"

He felt the wind rush beneath his boots as he Shouted, accelerating his speed to levels no ordinary human could withstand, propelling him along the road with the fleetness of an ebony arrow.

And then, just off to his right, he noticed a sight that made him skid to a halt, and his heart sink like a stone: just beyond a ridge between him and the city limits of Morthal ... there was a rising cloud of black smoke.

Grimnir ignored the thousand stitches in his chest as he renewed his sprint for the city, and Idgrod—_please_, please _let me not be too late,_ he prayed over and over again—

And then he rounded the bend, and stared in horrified shock at what lay before him.

Dozens of guards lay strewn all over the ground, looking as if they'd been savaged by one of the fabled Wild Hunts of Valenwood. Disembodied heads, mutilated limbs, and slashed-open torsos dotted the scenery, looking like nothing so much as large, macabre imitations of leaves, scattered by the winds. Blood and viscera was _everywhere_; the docks that lined one side of the down had been painted a horrible dark red, and more blood leaked from the rude wood into the water, staining that with many shades of crimson as well.

Several buildings, including the Moorside Inn, were wreathed in flames that belched the heavy smoke Grimnir had seen earlier. The thatched roofs were blazing, and one house at the far end of town had already been burned to the ground, and he thought he could see charred remnants of yet more bodies inside.

He gulped as the awful reality of what he was seeing sank in.

_Morthal had been turned into a war zone_.

And as far as Grimnir could tell—only one being had caused it.

He hung around only long enough to see Odahviing crest the ridge, and hover on a thermal above the town where he could keep an eye on it. In the meantime, Grimnir took a closer look at one of the last standing buildings—though still suffering some measure of damage do the door and windows—and the nearest to him, which he recognized as Highmoon Hall, the seat of the Jarl.

Suddenly, he heard a noise from within, a series of smacks that might have been coming from the massive firepit inside. Hoping against hope that Idgrod would be waiting for him within, Grimnir pushed open the remains of the door with no small amount of trepidation.

But Idgrod was not inside—and she most certainly was not the source of those noises.

Grimnir had only a moment's notice to see the horribly familiar figure in front of him—scaly and hulking, hunched over a mass of gore in the center of the room with his back to the Arch-Mage—and then he reacted.

"_Iiz … Slen NUS!_" he screamed. Clouds of icy mist exploded from his mouth, solidifying right before his eyes in seconds. Before either of them had the time to blink, M'Alga was imprisoned in a massive chunk of ice as big around as Grimnir was tall.

_" … Are you so … impatient, to face me directly so soon?"_

Grimnir was momentarily stunned—M'Alga's question, while in more or less the same booming voice he'd first used in Mzurkunch, was surprisingly much calmer than he had expected from the horrible beast.

"_Are you so cowardly,_" M'Alga went on, "_that you would attack me so recklessly … _Dragonborn?"

Grimnir started, completely blindsided by the revelation. "How do you know about me?!" he asked, teeth clenched, his mind suddenly racing at top speed.

"_There is little about you that I don't already know … Grimnir Torn-Skull._" The necromantic construct did not sound hurried in the slightest; he had not turned around to regard the agitated Grimnir, or even moved a muscle at all—or at least, the muscles that Grimnir's Shout had not immobilized. It was almost as though M'Alga, despite all the knowledge he possessed on the Dragonborn, found him only marginally more interesting than today's weather.

And that only made Grimnir even more furious.

"Whatever you and the Black Worm were planning, M'Alga," he growled, "it's over. I already know you plan to move against the Emperor. But I'm going to make sure that you don't even make it to the Solitude docks!"

The Arch-Mage was surprised how quickly he moved in his fury; the speed of the lightning spells he promptly unleashed upon M'Alga was quicker than he could ever have thought possible. It wasn't as though he was a moving target this time—but Grimnir was sick and tired of being one step behind this murderous creature all the time.

Today, he was going to even their footing. Today, he was going to equal their score.

M'Alga, for his part, remained where he stood. The ice that covered him prevented him from doing so—but Grimnir noticed it beginning to crack, and so he kept pouring on the lightning magic.

And finally, just as he felt the last of his magicka beginning to ebb, he shouted, "_KRII!_" and a purple wave of magic was expelled from his lips, washing over M'Alga in much the same way as his Unrelenting Force. The Shout did not carry M'Alga in its wake, however, but instead seeped deeply into his scaly body, turning his iridescent skin a sickly-looking pink.

Breathing heavily, Grimnir paused to take a long draft of potion from a flask in his satchel, hoping to restore the magicka he had expended. The enchantments woven into his robes, he knew, would help take care of the rest.

He could hear the ice beginning to shatter, Grimnir knew—he had to be ready—

CRUNCH.

M'Alga's enormous arms burst from the icy prison with hardly any effort at all, stunning Grimnir and immediately putting him on the defensive.

"_You are strong,_" M'Alga growled at him, rounding his ugly head on the Arch-Mage. "_But I am stronger._"

There was something strange about his voice, Grimnir thought. But he had no time to reflect on this new development; M'Alga was rushing right for him at inhuman speeds. Wildly, Grimnir Shouted, "_Fus … Ro D—_"

Air and _Thu'um_ alike whooshed from his lungs as M'Alga bulled into Grimnir with all the force and ferocity of an angry bear. Before Grimnir could recover, or even try to Shout again, M'Alga swatted out at him with one of those mace-sized fists, sending him flying through the broken door and out into the muddy street, scattering parts of several bodies in his wake.

M'Alga filled the doorway completely as he stepped out from the longhouse. "_Since you've proven yourself so eager to pursue this pointless adventure of yours,_" he said, "_I suppose I have no choice but to indulge._"

Grimnir stared as he healed the broken ribs where he'd been punched. M'Alga's voice was no longer the feral growl it had been just seconds ago, but as confident and practiced as ever. It sounded completely at odds with the body it belonged to.

And that, more than anything, told Grimnir that something very strange was going on here.

"_I am prepared to wait for you_," M'Alga continued coolly. "_If you truly believe you can stop me … then by all means, you may try. But you will accomplish nothing by acting so rashly save for one thing: inexorable, inevitable _death_._"

"Bastard!" Grimnir loosed another flurry of lightning spells, but this time, M'Alga was ready for him. The monster didn't even move; something had changed in the color of his scales, and suddenly the air around him was rippling with magickal energy. The bolts were being blocked, seemingly by thin air itself—but Grimnir knew enough about the haze surrounding M'Alga to know what it was doing; he'd faced enough Forsworn to know what it was.

"Breton blood," he said in realization, cursing. So magic was out of the question, M'Alga's Breton blood would simply enable him to deflect most of his magickal attacks, and absorb the rest—although, that having been said, there were two things Grimnir could do to keep himself alive.

And luckily for him, one of them was just coming over the hill.

**_"Yol … Toor SHUL!"_**

Grimnir barely managed to leap away at the last possible moment before Odahviing blanketed M'Alga in blazing, consuming dragonfire. The hulking shape of the monster was quickly lost to sight in the inferno.

Quickly, before he could waste another opportunity, Grimnir's fists blazed with violet flame. He brought them together with a _whump_, then pulled them apart to reveal an ethereal staff. Excess conjuration magic, skillfully shaped, poured out the spaces of Grimnir's fingers, forming a broad axe blade of many ripping edges.

Grimnir swung the conjured weapon into the mass of flames, and felt a sign of incipient success as the blade ripped into flesh and bone. Using every last ounce of his natural Nordic strength, he finished the downward cut, and heard one of M'Alga's arms fall to the ground with a thud.

He pulled back, not keen to get himself singed from Odahviing's fire before he got in a shot at M'Alga's other arm. "Nice shot," he told the dragon, hovering twenty feet above him. Odahviing's lips pulled back in an ugly smirk that Grimnir took to mean as a silent thank-you.

WHOOSH.

Grimnir was suddenly distracted as the dragon-fire that had engulfed M'Alga suddenly dissipated, revealing a most unpleasant—and unnerving—sight.

M'Alga's entire body, severed arm and all, was blistered and blackened, and gave off a pungent smell of charred meat … yet somehow, incredibly, _he was still alive_—and standing on his own two feet, no less! What was more, the longer Grimnir watched, the less evident those burns were becoming! And—that was not possible, surely—the remains of his arm, cut off halfway down the bicep by Grimnir's bound battleaxe, was beginning to twitch and writhe into a mass of formless flesh, the bleeding stump consumed by the roiling mass within moments.

Before Grimnir could even blink, a whole new arm—just as muscled as the last one, yet minus the scales and spiny fur, which made the whole thing even more sickening to look at—exploded from the lump of flesh with a shower of blood and gore.

He felt his jaw drop. "That is not possible," he said again, unable to say much more than a mumble, he was so numb from the shock. "That arm—those burns—they should have been _mortal wounds!_"

No earthly creature in Skyrim—or, indeed, all of Tamriel—possessed such amazing regenerative powers, Grimnir knew. Even the frost trolls of northern Skyrim, generally avoided for much the same, could not even come back from wounds like what he had just inflicted. Indeed, even potent restoration magic was not capable of healing such grievous bodily wounds. That just made the sight before him all the more unbelievable.

He took a step back, feeling a cloud of fear that he doubted had anything to do with M'Alga's Nordic blood. _Who is he ... _what_ is he?!_

The monster leered at him. "_I did warn you this was pointless,_" he rumbled. "_Normally, I would finish your folly, but I am not exactly at liberty to go where I please, and do what I please. I came here for a reason, and I intend to see it through._"

Grimnir blinked, confused. "What reason is that?" he demanded. "The Emperor?"

M'Alga did not answer him. "_The wounds were more serious than I anticipated,_" he said calmly, examining his freshly regrown arm, which was beginning to regain some of its former Argonian scale and Khajiit-like fur. "_The regeneration expended a great deal of energy on my part. I cannot continue as I am now, or this body will fail._"

_What?_ Grimnir's puzzlement only increased. Nothing was making sense to him anymore; one moment, M'Alga had been itching to end his life here and now—and now, for no apparent reason, he was going to let Grimnir off easy?

"_However_," continued M'Alga, "_we will meet again, Master Torn-Skull—and I will know if you are as reckless in the future as you have acted in the present. And if that moment comes, I will not waste any more of our time; I will kill you myself, and you will become one more weapon at my disposal_."

Grimnir tensed; the horror's claws were suddenly starting to brim with bluish-purple energy, more than Grimnir had ever believed could be possible.

"_A parting gift for you, Dragonborn_," rumbled M'Alga, "_with the compliments of the Black Worm!_"

Before Grimnir could react, M'Alga gave a beastly roar, and reached out with his glowing hands at arm's length. The force of the spell that radiated outwards from him was such that the Arch-Mage felt his hairs standing on end as it passed him. The spell, whatever it was, did not do much more than that to Grimnir.

But he only had to hear the sounds coming from all around him to know that _he_ had not been the target.

All the bodies he'd seen, all the limbs and bits of gore, were coming back to life, shimmering with necromantic energy. They hovered in the air, knitting themselves back together, coagulating into a horde of misshapen imitations of life. There were several dozen of them, plodding straight for Grimnir—emerging from the longhouse, and the remains of the burning houses around him, heading straight for the Arch-Mage.

Grimnir could not help but be amazed—he'd _never_ seen anyone be able to reanimate so many corpses with a single spell, never mind when most, if not all of them, had been torn apart in such a state!

And even more impressively, M'Alga had just stated that his reserves had been greatly taxed by having to regenerate an entire arm and burns over every last inch of his body. There was no way he'd been able to recover enough magicka to reanimate so many corpses at once in such a short time.

And now M'Alga was fading before him, his chameleonic scales turning invisible once again—with a veritable horde of undead blocking Grimnir from reaching him. The last the Arch-Mage saw of M'Alga was the leer on his reptilian face before he turned and made for the swamplands north of Morthal. He bounded out of sight with the speed of a saber cat, disappearing from view even before he'd reached the first trees of the moor.

Grimnir swore at the top of his voice as, for the second time in as many days, his quarry had escaped right before his eyes, leaving behind a veritable horde of undead—and every last one of them had their unseeing eyes set on him.

In any other situation, Grimnir knew there were too many for him to fight. Even Odahviing, though he had the advantage of flight, could be laid low after enough salvos of arrows in his hide—and enough of the reanimated city guards had the bow and arrows to make that happen. Dragonborn and dragon were outnumbered here by at least twenty to one.

_Except_.

From inside his pocket, Grimnir withdrew a very small, sealed scroll decorated with tiny arcane sigils in red ink. During his time at the College, J'zargo had asked Grimnir to test a few inventions of his own design: flame cloak scrolls that had an additional, very nasty side effect on the undead.

When Grimnir had first tested these, the scrolls had worked—all too well, as it turned out. His best set of robes were naught but cinders after the result of the experiment, after which no one bothered to ask J'zargo for any more help with their studies unless Colette Marence, the restoration instructor, was close on hand. Even so, J'zargo had not been bothered by the chilly reception; he had continued making improvements on the scrolls, and given a number of them to Grimnir just before their trip to Labyrinthian. He still had two such scrolls left, counting this one, and he knew for a fact that it would be enough to serve him well here.

Hopefully.

As the horde of undead thralls closed in around him, Grimnir unfurled the scroll, holding it high over his head—and only just remembered to shut his eyes before the world around him was consumed in scarlet flame. There was no earth-shattering noise, no other sound but a quick _whoomph!_—followed quickly by a flash of blinding light.

When Grimnir opened his eyes seconds later, the many corpses M'Alga had reanimated had been turned into nothing more than piles of fine black ash. Odahviing still hovered aloft; the fire from J'zargo's scroll, amazingly, had even managed to blacken the dragon's normally blood-red scales; even as Grimnir looked on, though, Odahviing shook himself off, causing a fine mist of black soot to cascade from his body in the process.

"Damn it," growled Grimnir to himself. He was furious with himself for allowing his surprise to get the better of him. M'Alga was right, he thought; he was sorry he'd made his decision so quickly. Grimnir was beginning to get the idea that he should have stayed with the others, and helped Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo to discover the potential of M'Alga's strength from the safety of the College, instead of answering a summons from—

_Jarl Idgrod!_

Suddenly, Grimnir was sprinting back into Highmoon Hall—in all the excitement of the ensuing battle with M'Alga, he had completely forgotten why he'd come here in the first place! "Jarl Idgrod!" he hollered. "Milady Ravencrone!"

But there was no answer. And ten seconds of calling out her name later, Grimnir found out why.

He had not thought to find out who or what M'Alga had been hunched over when he'd first found him here; it had been mostly obscured by the flames of the firepit, and remained unseen by his eyes as his battle with M'Alga raged on. Now, however, it appeared as though both of their questions had been answered—for the mass of gore, lying at the foot of the throne it had once occupied—belonged to no other person.

Idgrod Ravencrone's final vision had come to pass.

The Jarl of Morthal was dead.

* * *

_Next chapter: As M'Alga bears down upon Solitude, and the Emperor bears down upon Skyrim, fallout from recent events threatens to destabilize both city and province alike further still._

* * *

**A/N: Somewhere along the line where I was making my eighth or ninth character in ****_Skyrim_****, I started thinking about the different playable races in the game—their characteristics, special abilities, and all that kind of stuff. So many of them looked similar enough to one another that I idly wondered, "What would happen if someone had all the powers of each race available to him—say, someone with Histskin, Adrenaline Rush, and the like?"**

**Then I started wondering, "How the heck would I spin something like ****_that_**** into a borderline believable backstory?" Some time later, M'Alga was born. I hope you're liking him as a villain so far.**

**Early chapter tonight—for those of you who celebrate, you can consider it an early Valentine's gift from me. Love's a wonderful, beautiful thing, no matter who you love—and I certainly do love all of you. Mwah.**

**(also the GF would go spare on me if I spent our entire Valentine's date trying to get this published all day)**

**Thanks for reading! - K**


	6. V

**Trigger warning: There is a scene with some sexually suggestive material in this chapter. Nothing extremely explicit, but certainly enough to warrant the M rating. Better safe than sorry. - K**

V

It was a long time before Grimnir could turn away from Idgrod's body. His insides seemed to have gone numb. Idgrod Ravencrone, dead … it couldn't be …

"What did you know?" he found himself asking, looking at no one in particular, not even the Jarl's corpse. "What did you See, that you thought I had to know so soon … so quickly?"

He bowed his head, and mumbled a brief prayer to Arkay, for Idgrod and all the others who had died so needlessly, so gruesomely. In the same breath, he cursed the Black Worm once more for the carnage they had wreaked here.

"_I will hunt you down for this, M'Alga,_" Grimnir hissed with rage, and cursed the monster over and over again for a long time. How long, he did not know; he was so angry that he had no sense of the passage of time anymore. He was angry at M'Alga, the necromancers that had birthed him … but most of all, Grimnir was angry at himself.

Once again, for the second time in as many days, he had failed.

Grimnir was distracted suddenly by footsteps and voices—more than one person, by the sound of it, and most of them outside. He leapt up just in time for the doorway of Highmoon Hall to be filled in shadow.

"We heard your dragon fighting," the source of the shadow said. Sorli the Builder's tone was mechanical, shell-shocked, no doubt, by the level of death and destruction that the Worm had brought to Morthal. "I was able to rouse a few of the more able-bodied among us. We got here as soon as we were able."

"We weren't able to get there fast enough," Grimnir said sadly, hanging his head.

That was enough for Sorli's severe façade to break, and a hand went to her mouth as she saw for the first time who Grimnir was kneeling over. Within seconds, tears were streaking down her cheeks, and the Arch-Mages was holding her shoulder gently as she sobbed into his robes.

No one spoke for a long time. The others that Sorli had brought with her came in one after another, and saw the sight for themselves. They, too, dared not speak—out of shock of the sight, or of respect for their fallen ruler, Grimnir was not certain.

The sun was at its zenith before Grimnir finally stood up.

"Jarl Idgrod," he said to Sorli, his voice thick with sorrow and anger. "I told you earlier—about her last letter—that it mentioned you by name."

Sorli said nothing, but merely nodded.

"Idgrod called me here because she believed that if we were lucky, then you, me, and all of Skyrim would know what caused all this," Grimnir explained.

He felt the bombshell coming; now he understood what the Jarl had meant in her closing remark. "And that if we were unlucky … then I was to _give you her blessing_."

Sorli stopped crying at this. Slowly, she stood up. Her eyes, shiny and red with tears, were wide open in disbelief.

"Then," she whispered, "I … I am to be … "

Grimnir nodded, and bent down on one knee before the woman who called herself the Builder. He suspected she would be living up to her name before long.

"What are your orders, my Jarl?" he asked.

There were mutters and murmurs around those who had gathered in the hall. Grimnir could hear snippets here and there: "Sorli … the Jarl? … that's not possible … there's no way she can … "

But Sorli had raised her hand, and instantly there was quiet.

"Go back to Winterhold, Dragonborn. We will take care of our own here. Idgrod will be sent off to Sovngarde as only a Jarl of her standing should be."

Sorli the Builder turned on her heel, and there was a glint in her eye that Grimnir had never seen before.

"Go back to the College. Rest yourself. Because I order you to make sure there is _nothing_ left of the monsters that did this to _bury!_" hissed the new Jarl of Morthal through gritted teeth.

Grimnir brought his right hand to his breast in a salute, turned on his heel, and strode out of the wreckage of the longhouse without a word.

Odahviing was waiting for him. The crimson dragon was already crouching low to the ground, ready to be airborne at a moment's notice. Grimnir clambered behind his spiked head, held on for dear life—and Odahviing launched himself into the air due east for Winterhold with a storm of leathery wings.

* * *

The atmosphere at the College of Winterhold had changed almost overnight. Grimnir knew it to be tense even before the outset of M'Alga's attack, owing to how it had immediately followed Ancano's attempt to claim the Eye of Magnus for himself. However, the College that he and Odahviing returned to the next morning had never been more overwrought with fear.

"Sorli didn't take long to exercise her new authority," Faralda said in the Hall of the Elements, when Grimnir had asked about the sudden change in atmosphere. "Idgrod might not have been universally popular, but she had the Empire's support—and that still means something, even today. Losing her was a huge blow for both sides; Sorli knew that as well as any of us. Informing the other Jarls of Idgrod's death could very well be the push that Skyrim needs to fight this new threat."

"At least Jarl Korir was finally swayed," huffed Colette Marence, the restoration instructor, from next to Faralda. "If Idgrod's murder hadn't scared him so, I'd have given him a piece of my mind by now!"

The moment Grimnir had returned from Morthal, all five of the instructors had convened here, seated in a large circle around the font of magicka in the center of the lecture hall. Classes were canceled for the day, and all lectures postponed as well. The lecture hall itself had been barred and locked, preventing any students from entering and possibly eavesdropping, although J'zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna were permitted to remain behind, owing to their experience in Hob's Fall, and later in the Sightless Pit. Only a member of staff could undo the magickal lock that currently bound the gates, and as Urag preferred to keep to his own inside the Arcaneum, this was perhaps the greatest level of security the College could currently afford to Grimnir and his report.

"But why Morthal at all?" Tolfdir wanted to know, his face pale with shock as Grimnir finished relating his tale of what had happened in the city. "Surely if the Black Worm wanted to send a message, they could have gone for any other settlement, big or small. Why Morthal especially?"

Brelyna Maryon, standing to Grimnir's right, turned to look at him. Their eyes met for only a moment, but the Arch-Mage saw the questioning look in them. He gave no reply, but motioned for her to speak.

"We believe that the Black Worm created M'Alga for the express purpose … of killing the Emperor of Tamriel."

The reaction was more or less what Grimnir had anticipated: no sooner had Brelyna's declaration finished echoing off the stone walls of the Hall that the College staff immediately began to mutter among themselves. Tolfdir looked particularly aghast.

"It's already common knowledge that Titus Mede II will be attending the funeral of his cousin in Solitude," Brelyna went on. "Morthal is the closest settlement to Solitude, and because of the dangers posed by the marshes of northern Hjaalmarch, its city guard are some of the most trained forces in Skyrim. But even they weren't counting on the Black Worm to attack them directly." The Dunmer bowed her head sadly.

"The guard was completely decimated," Grimnir added, confirming Brelyna's words with a nod and a sigh. "And as we already know, Jarl Idgrod was slain in her own longhouse. I think the only reason Morthal hasn't been wiped off the map is that Idgrod knew this was coming—she saw it happen, in one of her visions. That gave Sorli enough time to evacuate Morthal, and Idgrod enough time to warn me in a letter."

Grimnir paused to clear his throat. "I also think this may be why M'Alga had her killed. Idgrod's reputation as a Seer isn't exactly a carefully controlled secret. Even before that party at the Thalmor Embassy, her gift was fairly common knowledge. Most of Skyrim still passes it off as her being delusional and senile, true, but even so … "

"You think that's why she was killed, then?" asked Faralda. "To silence her, prevent Idgrod from warning any other Jarls about the impending danger?"

"Possibly," Grimnir answered her. "But I'd already sent out letters to the nine holds before I even received that letter from Idgrod. In her mind, warning anyone else besides me must have been a pointless exercise."

"Regardless," said Brelyna, "Morthal poses no threat to M'Alga or the Black Worm anymore. Their path to Solitude has been laid bare—I can't think of anything in the marshes that could even slow M'Alga down, after what we saw of his power."

"The Stormcloaks are already denying they're involved in any of this, of course," Colette added. "Reports also suggest Windhelm has been closed off to all outsiders, and that the borders of Eastmarch are seeing increased patrols. One of Jarl Ulfric's Stormblades also sent out a message from Windhelm not long after Sorli's accession."

She unfurled a piece of parchment here, and cleared her throat. "'The Empire of Tamriel has outstayed its welcome in Skyrim, and her Sons and Daughters will be the first to welcome its departure from our homeland. But we do not, have not, and will not soil our hands with the foul deeds of necromancers, especially the filth that would dare follow in the corroding steps of the King of Worms. We consider these accusations of collusion to be baseless propaganda from the mouth of the dying Empire, and we shall treat it and any who speak such words accordingly.'"

Colette sniffed as she replaced the parchment in her robes. "No remorse about that massacre at Karthwasten, and yet they wash their hands at the first hint of necromancy? I think they protest too much—and too quickly as well."

"So would you if the College was accused of such things," said fellow Breton and conjuration instructor Phinis Gestor. "We've had to do damage control of our own, in case you've forgotten—not simply with Ancano, but with Orthorn and his friends, and again with that Dunmer and his experiments. I'll admit Jarl Ulfric's reaction was rather heavy-handed, but it's certainly not an admission of guilt by any stretch of the imagination. The Stormcloaks simply don't associate themselves with magic, no more than the average commoner in Skyrim."

"But we can't rule out the fact that Idgrod's death could still be politically motivated," Onmund spoke up at Grimnir's left. "She had Imperial connections, and given the current climate in Skyrim right now, it's all too possible that this whole exercise could be nothing more than intrigue. We already know the Thalmor are involved to some degree—we just need to find out how deep in this they were."

"Khajiit believes the claw-pointing should wait for a time," said J'zargo from behind Grimnir. He had remained uncharacteristically silent up until this point, to the point that the Arch-Mage had jumped when he'd heard J'zargo speak up. "This one is of the opinion our current focus should be upon the one called M'Alga. As far as we are aware, _he_ is the key to the Black Worm's chances at victory."

His ice-blue eyes were cold. "If we can kill M'Alga," he said, "then it is almost certain their schemes will be foiled, once and finally." He looked around the room. "But to do that, we must know everything about M'Alga. What he can do, where he can go from here."

Grimnir felt the pat of a furry paw upon his shoulder, and instinctively he knew the Khajiit had yielded the floor to him. Therefore, Grimnir stood up, and began to pace about his seat.

"Prior to the massacre at Morthal," he began, "the four of us had already gained some measure of M'Alga's power. Though he is one body, he has been created with elements of just about every single sentient species that inhabits Tamriel—man, elf, and even some of the beast races as well. We saw a sect of the Black Worm in the Dwarven ruins deep within the Sightless Pit, less than a mile from here. Along with one of their rituals, the cult had made use of the Dwemer machinery inside to bring M'Alga to life."

He leveled his own ice-blue stare at the College staff. "Simply put: M'Alga is the product of a necromantic process the likes of which we have never seen before. He is not some mindless thrall, to be wielded by a sorcerer like a puppet on strings. When I fought M'Alga in Morthal, he demonstrated a level of self-awareness and intelligence that I didn't think was possible. He not only had me pegged as a Dragonborn, but as your Arch-Mage as well."

"That's all well and good," said Phinis, "but I think we need a measure of his _physical_ power in order to prepare any kind of defense against him. You say he's a composite being of civilized species across Tamriel?"

"That's right," Grimnir replied. "We'd already worked out for ourselves that M'Alga's as strong as any Orc, and that his claws are as lethal as any Khajiit. But M'Alga is an able mage as well. We think he has some control over illusion magic, and that he can instill both fear and calm simply by speaking. It's almost like my _Thu'um_—though M'Alga's may be much more subtle in its effects."

Several of the staff exchanged looks of disquiet. "How do you know this?" Tolfdir asked, every last wrinkle on his face betraying worry and concern.

"We don't have any definite proof," Onmund said. "But the first time I heard M'Alga's voice, I remember how scared I was. And I've been through a lot in my time with the College—Mzulft, Saarthal, Labyrinthian, just to name a few. None of the horrors we went through in those two ruins even held a candle to that voice."

He shivered. "I felt like I was face-to-face to a dragon."

Grimnir saw the Nord's eyes flick in his direction briefly, but Onmund said nothing further about it.

"And as for M'Alga's voice being able to calm everyone around him," said Brelyna, "I suspected that was the case when Grimnir told us about what happened in Morthal. M'Alga somehow got into Highmoon Hall, killing the Jarl and all inside, without seeming to meet any resistance at all. I won't rule out the possibility he simply overpowered them all—but this is Morthal's city guard we're talking about. They would have recognized a monster like M'Alga as a threat right from the start."

"As far as his defenses," continued Grimnir, "M'Alga has a Nord's resistance to extreme cold, as well as a Dunmer's resistance to extreme heat. And that does extend to magickal attacks as well—the Breton blood inside him gives him a near-complete resistance to any kind of magic," he added. "I saw M'Alga shrug off the dragon-fire of Odahviing—a _red dragon_, mind you—like it was nothing more than a sunburn."

More mutters. Red dragons like Odahviing were widely considered the strongest kind of dragon imaginable—except, of course, for Alduin, who as a Nordic god had been in a league of his own before his downfall at Grimnir's Voice.

"Which leads me to another discovery I made," Grimnir continued. "Despite this resistance, M'Alga was susceptible to lightning attacks, and enough dragon-fire from Odahviing did eventually penetrate his natural defenses. Additionally, I used a bound weapon to slice off one of his limbs. As I already told you, however, all of these injuries were regenerated before my eyes. Mortal wounds to the last for any normal man," he said, fixing each mage with a steely glare, "each one healed in a matter of seconds. And that wasn't all. Even after suffering such extreme injury, M'Alga was able to cast a necromantic spell over just about every corpse in Morthal—and there were a lot of them. If it wasn't for J'zargo's scrolls, we might not be having this conversation."

He didn't even have to turn around to sense the note of pride creeping across the Khajiit's face.

"We know for a fact that there was an Altmer that was sacrificed to make this ritual possible," Grimnir went on. "It's common knowledge that they possess more raw magickal power than any other race in Tamriel. So it stands to reason M'Alga has gained this raw power as well."

"And recovering from those mortal wounds?" inquired Tolfdir.

"I think I can answer that," said Brelyna. "There was an Argonian present at the ritual as well. At the time we first saw M'Alga, we just thought he looked like a very strong Argonian. But while Grimnir was in Morthal, I did some reading through a few books Urag gave us earlier."

"And you found … ?"

"The Argonians share a special connection with the Hist-trees that inhabit the Black Marsh," explained Brelyna, "a connection, I think, that has never been fully understood by anyone that isn't an Argonian. But this book I read suggested that this connection lets the Hist actually heal an Argonian from far away, and at rates that no enchantment can even come close to equaling. It would certainly explain why the Hist are so revered among their culture—a connection like that would make them almost invincible in the right circumstances."

Another swell of muttering arose inside the Hall, like the rush of a cresting wave breaking upon the shore. Grimnir's mind went to the Argonian invasion of Morrowind, on the heels of Red Mountain's cataclysmic eruption. He could not blame his audience for reacting so apprehensively to this information—it was indeed, a virtually invincible power.

"This connection to the Hist," Faralda ventured further. "I don't suppose it would explain M'Alga's ability to turn invisible? Or is that just simple spellwork?" Invisibility spells were taught by the College, after all—although Drevis Neloren only took the best before he even considered letting them vanish so much as a single hair.

"I don't think it's spellwork," Grimnir told her. "The first time I saw him do that, I didn't see his hands move—or gather any magicka whatsoever, now I think about it."

"It might be related to the forest-coupling skills of the Bosmer," Brelyna piped up again, "that lets them turn invisible just by walking under the shade of a tree. I had to research that one pretty extensively as well; that skill isn't something you see very often, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase—at least, not in Skyrim," she amended. "There aren't many forests around here to 'couple' with in the first place."

There was silence as all present digested this information. Grimnir could sense the unease in each mage; the slowly dawning comprehension that the College, barely out of the shadow of a threat to the entire world, had been thrust almost immediately into another one. The world at large might not be at stake, but with the Emperor being targeted by the Black Worm, the political ramifications were unimaginable—not just in Skyrim, but all of Tamriel.

And Grimnir could also sense the same question budding within each of their minds. It was inevitable, really, he knew it was coming from the beginning—the only question was who would ask it first.

Faralda did the honors after a few moments of chewing her tongue. "So how can M'Alga be stopped?"

Grimnir had been thinking of this ever since he'd begun his journey back from Morthal. He'd been replaying the scenario a hundred times in his head, and a hundred times again. And each time, no matter how many times he thought about it, there was only one solution that had presented itself to him—the only one that could offer a chance of success.

"We have to overwhelm him," he said. "One man, a whole company of battlemages—doesn't matter. As long as we can catch him out in the open, away from innocent people, and strike hard and fast before he can make his move, I think we stand a chance."

"Well, somehow I doubt the Legion is going to be willing to expend any of their battlemages just to get rid of a single necromancer," said Phinis. "And the Stormcloaks don't have a battlemage to their name. The closest thing they have to that is Ulfric himself."

"M'Alga's going to be a lot tougher to shout apart than Torygg," remarked Onmund. "I guess this means we're on our own."

J'zargo put a reassuring paw around his shoulder. "We can beat him," the Khajiit hissed. "We have to."

BOOM.

The heavy oak doors of the Hall burst open to reveal Sergius Turrianus, limping inside faster than Grimnir had ever seen him. He was also breathing heavily, and was bent double by the time he'd stopped outside the sealed gates.

Grimnir was immediately concerned; old age and rheumatism ensured that the College enchanter never went anywhere in a hurry except in cases of extreme emergency. "What's wrong, Sergius?"

Sergius coughed, still gasping for air. "I saw—from my window—far south—dragon—"

Grimnir felt a clenching sensation somewhere in his stomach as the last word fell from the enchanter's lips. _Dragon_.

There had been a marked decrease in dragon activity since Alduin had been vanquished. Not enough to put a dent in their numbers, but enough that dragon attacks seemed to be very few and far between when Grimnir was around. They were afraid of him, he knew, and no longer risked striking out at a town or a city if they knew he was close by. The College knew this, as well, and that was why Grimnir was so surprised by what Sergius had told him.

Firstly, Grimnir had to admire the brazenness behind such an act. He idly wondered if perhaps this dragon was trying to exact vengeance upon Grimnir for slaying another dragon. But that was ludicrous—dragons desired raw power above all else; something as petty as vengeance was secondary to that lust.

Besides, more importantly, the fact that Sergius had told him this news at all could only mean one thing: the dragon was heading right for Winterhold … and perhaps even right for the College.

There was no time for debate. Grimnir lunged up from his seat, nearly skidding into the magickal font as he did so, and made for the door. A salvo of sparks from his fingertips melted the lock and chain that sealed the gate shut, and a second salvo burst the gate wide open, letting him through without even slowing his pace.

"No!" he yelled—out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Onmund, Brelyna, and J'zargo stir from their positions, clearly aiming to assist him. But he could not have that—he did not doubt their ability to stand up against a dragon; they'd helped him slay a fair amount in times past, after all. However …

"M'Alga is more important right now!" he hollered at the three mages. "Keep working out a plan. I'll return as soon as I'm able!"

And before anyone could say anything, Grimnir had bolted out of the doors and into the College courtyard. But still he kept on running. He could sense the dragon's presence now; sense the fire of the _Thu'um_ burning in its body—

Grimnir quickened his pace as he sprinted over the thread of a bridge that connected the College to the outside world. He knew the dragon was just as able to sense him as he had sensed it—perhaps even before Sergius had warned him in the first place—

Something burst out from the clouds to the south all of a sudden, punching a hole in the overcast sky, and the rays of the sun distracted Grimnir completely, blinding him and almost causing him to fall off the bridge and into the abyss—

_Wait, he thought. The sun rises in the east … not the south—_

He ducked just in time. The massive fireball exploded harmlessly against the stone bridge, magickally reinforced against all but the strongest of forces, but Grimnir still had to clutch the railing for dear life to brace against the impact. Whether or not dragonfire was one of those forces, he did not want to find out.

So he kept on running. He sprinted under the archway, and into the main road of town. He had to close the distance between him and the dragon, to make sure that it would see him first—not the town, and not the College.

But Grimnir's concern was not simply for the people of Winterhold. He had a very good reason for not wanting Onmund and the others to see him battle this dragon.

Because the dragon was close enough now for Grimnir to sense not only the _Thu'um_ of the approaching monster … but something else as well … something known, yet unknown to him.

And so, as something vast, black and scaly bore down upon him, great wings blocking the sky completely, Grimnir made the first move.

_"Fus … Ro DAH!"_

* * *

Back at the College, the conference had been completely forgotten. Brelyna showed signs of conflict as to whether or not she wanted to continue, but she was the only one; every last one of the College staff was chewing their lips, and Onmund and J'zargo looked worlds away. The Khajiit was almost dancing with excitement, and his tail refused to stop twitching.

Onmund, on the other hand, was trembling head to toe so much that when the first of the quakes hit, causing the floor of the Hall to vibrate and the windows to rattle, Brelyna thought for a split second that maybe the Nord had been causing them.

"It's starting," he whispered quietly. "I'd know his Unrelenting Force anywhere."

There was silence. No one was really sure what to say. Grimnir had been able to hold his own against dragons many times before, and without anyone's help on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, there was always a very tense air about the place when he was off hunting the great beasts. And while Brelyna would never admit it, she knew it was because everyone had the same thought.

_What if this was the last dragon?_

_What if Grimnir never came back?_

Onmund elbowed Brelyna in the shoulder. The Dunmer noticed he was fidgeting where he stood.

"What?"

Onmund bent into her ear. "I can't stop thinking about it," he whispered. "I don't know if—"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's Grimnir," said Onmund, his voice becoming more and more strained. "Ever since he showed us that new Shout of his in Hob's Fall—I … I … "

Brelyna was beginning to get tired of this, and pulled Onmund out of the hall without a word, knowing full well the eyes of everyone there were on them.

"All right," she said, once they were in the entrance to the deserted Arcaneum. "What is it about Grimnir that's bothering you so badly?"

Onmund pulled his arm out of her grasp with a defiant look. "How did he do it?" he asked. "How did he learn that Shout so quickly? It takes years for normal Tongues to learn how to do that!"

Brelyna frowned. "Grimnir isn't exactly a normal Tongue, though," she replied. "He can absorb dragon souls to deepen his understanding of the dragons' language. You know this—you've seen him do it how many times?"

"But it isn't that simple!" protested Onmund. "He needs to see the dragon language before him. He needs to see a word—understand it—before he can actually use it! Remember Saarthal? Labyrinthian? How he just stood in front of those tombstones for Talos only knows how long?"

Brelyna still wasn't sure what Onmund was trying to tell her.

"But he stopped doing it," the Nord went on. "He told us in Hob's Fall that he didn't want to desecrate any more tombs if he could help it!"

"And that he took to learning the words from books instead," Brelyna finished for him. "But what's your point?"

Onmund's defiant look had not faded from his face—if anything, it had only grown more intense. "I think there's more to it than that," he said. "I think Grimnir's hiding something. I don't buy for a second that he's doing this for my benefit—that he's doing this to stop breaking into our ancestors' tombs just for a new bit of knowledge to learn."

The Dunmer folded her arms, skeptical. "All right," she said. "So for the sake of argument, why _do_ you think he's doing this? And more to the point—"

She never finished her question: Onmund moved like lightning, driving his fist into her stomach—not hard, but enough to leave her winded. As Brelyna reeled from the impact, bent double, she heard Onmund's fading footsteps.

"I'm sorry, Brelyna!" he called out. "But I have to know for myself! I have to know the truth!"

The dark elf stood up unsteadily, coughing all the while. "That idiot," she whispered to herself—for there was only one place Onmund could have gone now.

Furious with the Nord—though not as much as with her own self—Brelyna hurried after him.

She met J'zargo halfway down the stairs. Before the Khajiit could even open his mouth, Brelyna interrupted him.

"Onmund's gone after Grimnir. We need to get them back to the College, and back to safe haven!" she shouted, talking very fast.

"Can Grimnir not handle himself against a dragon?" J'zargo looked utterly lost.

Brelyna set her jaw as she sprinted down the stairs. "It's not Grimnir I'm worried about," she muttered.

* * *

**_"Yol … Toor SHUL!"_**

The Arch-Mage was beginning to feel the onset of fatigue. The events of the past few days, having very little time to sleep in between them all, and the weight of the emotions he'd been keeping in his head the whole time, were all beginning to take their toll on him. Add this and a complete lack of potions in his satchel, and he felt as though he was fighting a losing battle.

He was just able to duck behind a boulder and dodge the twelth—or was it the thirteenth? Grimnir wondered; he'd lost count soon into this long and brutal fight—fireball from the dragon not twenty feet above him. His lightning had done its work; the grayish-black wings of the dragon sported a dozen smoldering holes in the leathery hide, and several scales were blackened and burned.

The Arch-Mage now charged up another volley of bolts—but the sparks faded from his fingers as swiftly as they had been born.

He swore under his breath—that was the last of his magicka.

Grimnir knew he would regain it over time, and so he was not overly worried—but the fact remained that by the time he had enough left for another salvo of bolts, he'd most likely be dead.

He needed a stopgap—something that would allow him to give him enough time and energy to finish this dragon one and for all.

And it came to him. Yes … that was perfect. His Voice would be out of commission for some time afterward, but one word of it would be enough. One word was always enough.

But if he was to use it, there was little time. Grimnir knew he had to act quickly.

And so, with a quick breath, he rolled out from behind the boulder.

The dragon was ready for him—but so was the Arch-Mage.

**_"STRUN!"_**

He screamed the word to the high heavens. Almost immediately, the weather began to change around him; the clouds roiled and churned, the air grew warm and humid, and rain began to fall.

And an immense power began to build up around them, one that both dragon and Dragonborn recognized—

CRASH.

The first of the lightning bolts struck the side of the cliff near the road, causing a small avalanche of rocks that fell harmlessly to one side of the cobblestones.

CRASH.

The second bolt struck the dragon, right in the topmost spike lining its back. The great beast roared in pain, and its immense wings folded and flapped in futility. Seconds later, the dragon fell to earth with a THUD that had to have been felt in Windhelm, and which unseated Grimnir completely, sending him into a nearby snowbank.

And still the lightning kept on coming.

One bolt, then two, and then three more—each of them striking the dragon with uncanny precision. It roared in agony—or was that defiance Grimnir was sensing from it? He could almost feel the burning heat of its Voice, almost feel it radiating from its scales, hotter than dragonfire—

_No._

"You will submit," he growled back at the dragon, looking it right back in the eye, not daring to betray an ounce of his own fatigue. "You will _submit!_ _Hi fen boaan!_"

Something happened at that moment, something that almost made Grimnir forget about the dragon, about the state of his body. It felt as if something had erupted inside him, eating at his insides, licking at his mind like living fire—something powerful … _too_ powerful.

That fire had leaped up, and Spoke at the dragon in its own language. Had that been Grimnir speaking—or—

"_Ni qahnaar!_" roared the dragon in reply. "_Ni ziil gro dovah ulse! Mul vomindok, Dovahkiin!_"

The fire in Grimnir's belly leapt higher still. "_Hi fen boaan,_" he—_it?_—repeated. _"Uv fen vaazaan gar rotte. Pah hi—gro dovah—ULSE—!_"

"Grimnir!"

What?!

As suddenly as it had been born—as if the name was a torrent of rain upon the raging inferno—it was gone, and Grimnir Torn-Skull was distracted completely at the familiar voice. Before he could stop himself, he turned around—and froze at the form of Onmund sprinting right for him, lightning storm be damned.

Behind him, Brelyna and J'zargo held wards close to their bodies, trying to protect themselves from both dragon and lightning alike, but Onmund would not be deterred. Ignoring the danger all around him, the Nord continued to run for Grimnir, the cries of his fellow mages unheard in the distance—

"What are you doing?" Grimnir heard himself yelling, as if from miles away. "Get out of here! Get out before—"

"_Faas … Ru MAAR!_"

The instant of distraction had cost Grimnir. Before he could think to throw a ward around himself, a wave of scarlet energy billowed out from the grounded dragon's jaws. It passed through him like a hot wind, and Grimnir knew instinctively—just from the way he'd seen Onmund running toward him—that the others had been caught in the blast of Thu'um.

But he was not injured—that in itself was some good news. But Grimnir knew enough about this Shout to know what it was for—and in so doing, he knew he had discovered what he had sensed earlier, the _unknown_ he had felt within the dragon's soul … the unknown Word.

_Maar_.

Knowing he would have to face the scene sooner or later, Grimnir forced himself to look back at the dragon.

His stomach turned over.

The grayish dragon was nowhere to be seen. In its place was something far worse; another dragon, spikier, darker, far more malevolent than the real one. All too familiar, all too terrible even in his mind, its red eyes fixed Grimnir with a deadly stare.

"_Zu'u hin daan!_" bellowed the apparition of Alduin, malice and hatred dripping from his mouth with every word it spoke. "_Mu gro ulse!_ You and I are bound together, Dovahkiin—for now and for ever!"

The scales of his body burned with black fire—the dragon god's eyes burned like twin pits of Oblivion—

But Grimnir knew he had to resist.

"You have _nothing!_" he roared back at the nightmare. "_Hi zol vomul!_ You know nothing but your own defeat, Al-Du-In! You have no form to your own. You have no knowledge to bring about my end as I brought about _yours!"_

He breathed in. "And you—_have no power_—**over me**—**_any longer!_** **_Fus … Ro DAH!"_**

And the illusion was dispelled—with one single thunderclap, the world returned to Grimnir, and the dragon was blasted back from the Arch-Mage with the force of a fallen star. Mortally wounded, gruesomely mutilated, the dragon crashed into the cliff with a horrible CRACK, and fell limply to the ground.

But Grimnir was not done. "_Hi ofan_," he hissed, the fire in his belly returned to full strength, and burning hotter than ever as he watched the dead dragon burst into flames, preparing to yield its most precious possession to him.

Grimnir, however, was after something far more precious than a dragon's meager _soul_.

_"Hi ofan pah nu!" _screamed the inferno. Grimnir felt his hands stretch outwards, as if to embrace the tribute it was about to receive. _"Wo kos, dovah? Vahzen nu!"_

Something shifted in the flames that licked the dragon's fresh corpse, consuming the flesh, disintegrating the scales to ashes, picking it cleaner than a vulture. Grimnir saw many shapes within the fire, spiky glyphs that twisted as hissed as they leaped into the air.

"_Bah … lok … _"

_Bahlok_.

Hunger.

There was only one more, and Grimnir could sense it coming, the unknown Word which had driven him here—concealed within the deepest secret a dragon could ever keep to himself—

…

_Maar_.

Yes … he had heard it already, he had felt its power—the image of Alduin resurgent, scales like black flames that licked and lashed at the air—the worst fear of all Nords—the worst of the terrors that haunted the Dragonborn—

…

Terror.

That was it.

_Bahlokmaar_.

And as Grimnir became enlightened, he felt the soul he had consumed mere seconds ago wreath his body in wisps of flame. A shrieking roar, the final echo of the slain dragon at his feet—a literal and metaphorical shell of its former self—echoed in the storm that still raged around him.

Then Grimnir waited, and pondered the knowledge he had forcibly taken. The last Word of a Shout, a Word that he had been in search of for years, was finally his. But something was missing. He knew _maar_, and understood it well. Why, then, did he not feel any—

The Arch-Mage felt an icy chill descend down his spine. He had completely forgotten.

Slowly, not daring to look, he turned around, and saw the three mages still standing there, soaked to the bone and still as statues amidst the ongoing thunderstorm. All of them stared at Grimnir with fearful looks on their faces. Brelyna and J'zargo looked as if they were just now coming to, and finally Grimnir realized that they had been hit by the dragon's Shout.

Bahlokmaar hadn't intended to hit him with it at all, he thought. _He'd gone for these mages all along_.

"Is it over?" he asked them. It astonished him how his voice trembled so much. Was he that afraid? Was this part of his understanding as well?

And then he saw Onmund.

The Nord's eyes were bright red—but not with the effects of the Shout, as Grimnir had first thought. For these had faded from Brelyna and J'zargo—the worst was over for them, and they knew now what they had seen had not been real—yet Onmund still stared at Grimnir with the same blood-colored stare.

And Grimnir finally saw that Onmund's face wasn't _wet_ from just the rain.

The Nord's gaze, throughout all the tears, were staring at him with a thousand different emotions, and the question he now spoke took those thousand different emotions, and flung them all at Grimnir like a sharpened spear, and the Arch-Mage felt it all pierce him like a red-hot razor—carving him, skinning him, stabbing at his heart with more venom than he could have believed was possible.

"_How could you lie to me?_"

And before anyone could process the sheer amount of corrosive hatred packed into those half-dozen words, Onmund had turned his back on the mages. No one called out after him; no one thought to hurry after him until well after Grimnir's storm had blown out. And when they did, J'zargo and Brelyna turned to look at their Arch-Mage. A thousand words passed between their gazes in a matter of seconds, none of them spoken—and none of them could be, even if they'd tried.

Finally, the Dunmer and the Khajiit took their leave, leaving behind a Dragonborn whose thought were now more turbulent than any storm he could have conjured, or ever would again. The fire had been extinguished; not even smoke or embers remained of the inferno that had devoured Bahlokmaar's precious soul.

_What have I done?_

Grimnir Torn-Skull did not know whether he'd spoken the question to the world or not, but it did not matter to him now. There was no one left to hear it anymore.

In the span of a week, he had lost so many people to death and destruction in ways he had never before dreamed. He had failed to keep promises, and failed to protect lives. And yet … none of his failures had ever hurt quite so badly as this.

Because even through his anger and fury, Grimnir knew deep down that Onmund was right—he _had_ lied to him.

And he had lied to them all.

* * *

_That night_

Halfway across the province, the atmosphere was filled with a tension that, choice of location aside, had nothing to do with dragons whatsoever.

The town of Dragon Bridge took its name from the famous viaduct that spanned the River Karth, and perhaps even predated it as well as the settlement itself. It was rumored that if a man could climb up to the top of the two carved dragon skulls that adorned its single tower, one could not only see all the way to Solitude, but also to Dawnstar, Morthal—even Falkreath. But given the state of the stone bridge—every inch worn smooth by the uncounted centuries of feet, time, and weather—even the most daring of souls wasn't fool enough to try.

As night fell over the otherwise unremarkable logging town, Gaius Maro stared out at that bridge as he brushed off his uniform. The structure was lately beginning to look less and less like a mere point of interest—at least, so said the Legion and some of his fellows in the Penitus Oculatus, the clandestine group devoted to protecting the Emperor. And with said Emperor now confirmed to be in Skyrim (where exactly, even his superior officer was not at liberty to say), things had become very tense in this small little town even before the threat of the Stormcloaks had fully reared its head in the battle at Whiterun.

Mara's sake, Maro thought with a scoff, the Legion was talking about bringing down the bridge if it meant keeping these insurrectionists at bay! He'd done his requisite tour of duty there before the Penitus Oculatus had pulled him out of the rank-and-file as a Quaestor, and plunked him right in the middle of a never-ending cycle of intrigue (Maro cursed the Elder Council for their endless scheming; he was a military man, damn it all, and not in the slightest interested in which noble of Cyrodiil was going to what ends to secure power). But his military mind had not been dulled here; Maro knew that to destroy the Dragon Bridge was suicide for the Empire's foothold in Skyrim. It would certainly keep the Stormcloaks at bay, forcing them to divert through to the Reach—and by extension, the Forsworn, who were none too happy with anyone who intruded upon their perceived territory—or the swamps of Hjaalmarch, which many agreed were even worse. Unfortunately, the same would be true of the Legion if any of their outlying territories in Skyrim were attacked.

He scoffed again at the bridge, and turned away. When his mission was done, he thought, he'd be having some words with General Tullius about proper military strategy. Perhaps if time permitted him tonight, he might even be able to pay a visit to Castle Dour before Tullius could retire.

"Well, this is it, then."

Only his military training kept Gaius from leaping a foot in the air in surprise. He recovered just in time to see Faida hurrying to his side. His heart rose, and the two embraced in a hug.

"I didn't think you'd be able to see me off," Gaius remarked, breathing in a steady smell of mead and warm food—Faida ran the local inn, and the increased presence of the Penitus Oculatus must have been running her ragged lately. He made a mental note to make it up to her after this whole business with the Emperor.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I didn't wish my love good luck," Faida replied. "Now you look after yourself, Gaius. You're doing your duty, and I'm proud of you. But you'd better come back to me, you hear?"

Gaius smiled. "Faida," he said softly, brushing away some of the maiden's rust-colored hair, "I may travel alone … but you know I carry you always in my heart."

He leaned in close, and for an instant that both wished could last forever, their lips met. "I'll see you soon," Gaius said, and Faida hurried off for the tavern, almost knocking aside a maiden carrying a lute over her back as she trotted in the same direction.

Gaius watched her leave with such intensity and longing that he almost forgot about the mission entrusted to him—or indeed, the footsteps of the man who had trusted it to him in the first place. When he did, this time he really _did_ leap a foot in the air, and he sprang to a salute as his father and commander walked up alongside him.

"At ease, son," Commander Maro waved him off. "Is everything in order?"

Gaius rummaged in his satchel for only a moment before producing a scrap of parchment from his robe. "Yes, sir. Schedule for the week to ensure security preparations across Tamriel for the Emperor's arrival."

"Very good," said the commander, his voice at once becoming taciturn and precise. "Remember—the political climate in Skyrim is more hostile than ever. Talk to no one else besides the Jarls and their guard commanders. The fewer who know about your mission, the safer the Emperor will be."

Gaius sighed—matters of national security often tended to bring out this side of his father. "You worry too much," he reassured him. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will." But Commander Maro did not smile. "I still want you to keep what I told you in mind. Stay alert—trust no one outside your circle. Head to each city, make your observations, and move on."

"I understand," Gaius said. "But don't you think you're being paranoid? I'm inspecting security, not charging off into battle. There's not a lot that can go wrong!"

Commander Maro's eyes flashed, and Gaius instantly wondered if he'd overstepped. Only the fact that this man was his father allowed Gaius to speak freely in front of him now—but even then, he was usually very careful about throwing around the p-word so carelessly.

"Son," the commander spoke, his voice dangerously low, "when the Emperor's safety is concerned, _anything_ could go wrong. Off you go, now—and good travels."

Gaius knew then the discussion was over. He therefore saluted once more. "Farewell, father. I'll return as soon as I'm able."

Commander Maro merely grunted—but for Gaius, it would suffice. Thus, he turned away, and began to make his way up the long road to Solitude.

In the sadness of seeing Faida for what felt like the last time for a long time, and the importance of the task he'd been delegated, Gaius Maro did not notice the maiden walking ahead of him—just ahead … as if she was trying her very best to stay within sight of him …

* * *

_Somewhere in Hjaalmarch_

M'Alga woke from his slumber with a start.

The abomination needed mere seconds to collect his thoughts, and seconds more to take in his surroundings. Stale air invaded his nostrils, and dim torchlight greeted his eyes.

The Nordic ruins of Folgunthur lay right at the foot of the great stone arch on which rested the city of Solitude. M'Alga had made it to this abandoned place in order to recover himself; his body, though powerful, was far from invincible. Even the greatest of sorcerers could never compete with Time, and M'Alga knew this had never been more evident than with him. This body, powerful though it was, could not be used for very long before it began to wear out, hence his need to lie low and avoid trouble while he could heal his wounds.

The Dragonborn had been more powerful than he anticipated, M'Alga thought as he stretched his regrown limb experimentally, and stroked the scaly flesh where it had once been burned, to confirm the return of his strength. The joints of the bones held, and the flesh did not flake at the scale. He judged this suitable, and stood up.

He was growing stronger, he knew—the more time passed, the more used to this body M'Alga became. Eventually, he would not have to worry about any side effects of the ritual that had brought him here, and even if there was still any deterioration at that point, it would no longer be an inconvenience to him.

M'Alga emerged from Folgunthur into the cool night, bathing himself in the light of the full moons. The spiky remains of the three chaurus he'd slain still lay splay-legged around the entrance; M'Alga had overpowered them, and consumed them to speed his regeneration. There was little to be gained from them now, the scavengers of the swamplands would devour the rest.

As his feline eyes scanned the stone archway on which rested the city of Solitude, M'Alga had to appreciate the military genius that had gone into constructing the city. Its position made it almost impregnable to siege attacks from either land or sea, and accessible from only one location, which he knew would be heavily guarded through both day and night. And he wouldn't even know the full strength of the forces _inside_ until he actually _got_ inside.

He nodded to himself. This was going to be a challenge.

Then, the reptilian mouth cracked open in a leering smile. The challenge would make it more _fun_.

An idle thought suddenly entered M'Alga's mind, one that made the smile slide from his monstrous face like the blood of that Jarl off her own throne. When had he started thinking like that? It was unexpected, especially not so soon after his creation.

He had to be careful, now, not to get too reckless in his thoughts. For such would surely lead to recklessness in his words, and finally his actions. And recklessness was the last thing M'Alga wanted to feel right now.

His eyes now glanced back to the stone archway. If the plans of the city were still accurate, then his destination should be … yes. He immediately knew there was only one way he could make the journey _there_.

M'Alga left the ruins of Folgunthur, then, and bounded on all fours towards the sheer cliffs at speeds no man or mer could even think to equal. His heavy claws and Orcish strength had no problem latching onto the weathered stone, and the speed at which he'd been running was enough to keep him there good and tight.

He grimaced. Now came the hard part.

M'Alga knew he could not afford to wait around. Though it was his nature, he knew this unique body had been gifted to him for a reason—and he was not in any way wasteful. Even so, he knew he was about to attempt something that had never been done before, and would likely never be attempted again.

And if his body failed him now, then the entire plan would be ruined.

The monster felt that feeling of recklessness caress his mind once more, and shook his head. Distractions were the last thing he wanted right now; he needed a clear mind, free to concentrate on the path ahead.

Digging his claws in further, and feeling the stone crack around his huge hands and feet, M'Alga began to climb.

* * *

_Meanwhile_

Gaius Maro stepped through the gates of Solitude to salutes from two of the city guard. "At ease," he told them dismissively, just barely able to stifle a yawn.

But the Solitude guards had been trained well enough to notice. "Should we take you to the barracks, sir?" one of them offered. "We'll speak to Captain Aldis. He'll have a bed ready for you in no time."

Gaius was in neither the mood nor the shape to argue, and nodded. "A nightcap, though, before I retire," he said, pointing to the nearby inn—the Winking Skeever, according to the half-faded sign above its door.

"Of course, sir," said the other guard. "We'll inform the Captain you've arrived in the city. Should I ask him to prepare for inspections immediately, sir?"

Gaius shook his head. "That won't be necessary. Tell your Captain that inspections will begin at first light tomorrow morning. Get some rest yourselves as well."

"Already done, sir," said the first guard. "Night guard took their posts ten minutes ago. We're rested as babes to a one."

Gaius smiled. "Good work. Carry on."

The guards saluted again, and returned to their posts at the door, leaving Gaius by himself. He looked around the streets of Solitude, far from deserted even at this late hour, before sighing and striding inside the Winking Skeever.

He was immediately glad to be inside this place, not for its warmth and the smells of good food and drink wafting about the tavern, but for the fact that it was crowded with people. People who were otherwise occupied with raucous tales and songs, mead and wine … in a way, it was more welcome to Gaius; it reminded him of Faida's own tavern. He wondered idly if she ever wished the Four Shields got this lively at night.

But more than that, Gaius had been pondering his father's parting words. _When the Emperor's safety is concerned, _anything_ could go wrong_. He knew Commander Maro was looking out for his best interest, as well as the Emperor's. But Gaius doubted anyone was going to walk up to him in this crowded bar and stab him in the heart.

And so, he took a seat at the counter. Almost immediately, the bartender seemed to pop out of thin air right before him. He had the build of a Legionnaire gone to seed: unshaven, rumpled red hair, and a belly protruding from his stained apron that Gaius was sure no soldier would ever be proud to possess.

"What can I get for you, soldier?" boomed the man, in a raucous voice that reminded Gaius of one of his uncles in Cyrodiil.

Normally, Gaius was not one for drinking anything beyond a glass of Colovian brandy. But once in a while, especially on tours of duty like this, he had no problem with sampling the local flavor.

"What can you recommend?" he therefore replied, leaning over the counter with the slightest hint of a daring smile—one that the bartender returned as he reached under and produced a bottle of some smoky-green liquid.

"Spiced wine," explained the man with a smile. "It's a local family recipe. Vittoria Vici liked it so much she drafted an export order straightaway. East Empire Company ships it everywhere from Daggerfall to Auridon now. Maybe even beyond."

His face fell, deflating like risen dough. "Poor woman," he sighed. "No one deserves to go the way she did."

Gaius picked up the bottle. "How much?" he asked, fishing in his pocket, hoping his weekly stipend might be enough to pay for this.

But almost as soon as it had gone, the cheerful look had returned to the bartender's face. "Don't worry yourself, son—it's on the house!" he boomed.

Gaius forced a laugh. "I'm grateful to you, and I'm glad to know a soldier's still appreciated around here," he said truthfully. But he drew out his pouch. "I still can't accept this, though. I'll pay you for your trouble, and—"

"Nonsense," laughed the barman. "It's already _been_ paid for!"

Gaius let the coin pouch drop to the counter, distracted. "I'm sorry?" he asked, certain he'd misheard.

"Yep!" the barman went on. "Along with full room _and_ board, don't you know? Must be nice to have a wife who cares about you while you're gone."

Gaius felt a niggling feeling in the back of his brain. Something about this wasn't right. "I don't have a wife," he immediately said. "My heart's set on someone, yes, but we've not made our vows as of yet."

The barman frowned. "Hang on a minute," he said. "You look like someone my cousin knows. Tan skin, little black beard—and he was a soldier himself, come to think."

This struck Gaius as strange. "You wouldn't happen to know Faida, would you?"

The barman's eyes widened, and he suddenly laughed harder than ever. "That's her!" he roared. "That's my cousin! Mara's lovely eyes, sonny, you look just like she said in her last letter!"

He threw out a hand, one that a suddenly grinning Gaius was all too happy to shake. "Corpulus Vinius! I run this inn. For how much longer, the Eight only know. But I'll be damned if I'm out of steam yet!"

He poured out the spiced wine into a set of glasses. "Drink up, sonny. And don't even think about trying to pay for this. I don't care how high up you are in the Legion, I'm not denying any friend of my cousin my hospitality!"

Feeling like he had little choice at this point, Gaius drank.

* * *

The wine certainly lived up to its name, he thought a minute later—still spluttering and gasping for air and water.

Corpulus Vinius chuckled. "Acquired taste—takes some getting used to," he said dismissively. "You'll be fine."

* * *

When he'd recovered some time later, Gaius returned to more pressing matters.

"I don't know who paid out their nose for me to stay here," he said to Corpulus, "and I don't know how much Faida told you about me." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "I'm on a schedule, and I have sleeping arrangements elsewhere in the city. And I don't think there's anyone in the Legion save for Captain Aldis and your Jarl who has enough authority to countermand these orders."

Corpulus listened intently. "Well, I don't see Elisif in here hardly ever," he said, "but Aldis and I are on good enough terms. He comes in sometimes for a drink. Chances are he'll even be in tonight. All this toughened security, I tell you—if I was captain, I'd want a drink myself."

He clapped a hefty hand around Gaius' shoulder. "Don't worry yourself," he said. "If Aldis comes in tonight, I'll let him know you're here. You've got a room of your own, and a nice warm fire to boot. You won't find that at the city barracks, son."

Gaius still wasn't sure about something. The timing was too convenient—how had someone known he was coming here tonight? And how had they been able to convince Corpulus to give Gaius this kind of treatment? Had he been bribed? Coerced, even? He started scanning the face of the bartender, looking for any sign of stress.

But he could find nothing. If Corpulus was hiding any signs of foul play, then he was an excellent actor indeed—Gaius had interrogated better actors than this in his time with the Penitus Oculatus, and broken a few, as well.

As far as he could tell, there was nothing suspicious here.

"All right," he eventually sighed. "I guess you can at least show me to my room. But I'm still on a schedule, Corpulus. Unless Captain Aldis wants to haul me to the barracks personally—and you can tell him I have no objection to that—then I'm going to need an early wakeup call."

"I can arrange that," chuckled Corpulus, heaving himself up with a grunt. "Besides, two hours in one of our beds is as good as eight hours anywhere else. You'll never get a better night's sleep for the rest of your life."

He took out a keychain. "If you could just come with me?"

They walked up the stairs, where Gaius was greeted by a number of doors. He noticed Corpulus was leading him towards what looked like the biggest of these doors. "The master suite?" he asked, a half-smile creeping about his face. "Must be well off to pay for something like this on a whim."

"Nah," said Corpulus. "Most people who rent this room out just got married, if you know what I mean. Or they just really want to spoil a maiden. Or a man—or several, even." He laughed lecherously as he unlocked the door. "Had this one Argonian come in the past month with a full half dozen wood elves fawning over him like you wouldn't believe. I was getting noise complaints all night because of that bastard."

Gaius was spared a disturbing mental image when Corpulus opened the door to reveal the master suite. A small voice in the back of his head admitted that it was certainly a nice-looking room. The furniture was polished oak, from the dining table and the bookcase to the bedside chest and the bed itself. And speaking of the bed, Gaius certainly did think it looked comfortable—it certainly beat animal skins, wet hay piles, and even straw mattresses.

However, what concerned Gaius Maro more was that the master suite was already occupied—and the only occupant of the room was providing a spectacular sight indeed.

Only a sense of military propriety kept Gaius where he stood. He quickly forced his eyes to look away from the sight, but it was too late—one glance had been enough to take in the naked woman before him, apparently unconscious, and tied to the bedposts with thick black ropes that spread her arms and legs out for a sight that no small amount of men might have killed for.

But Gaius Maro was not one of those men. He was attached to a faithful soul—and right now, he was very angry.

Corpulus, for his part, stared a little longer at the nude maiden, eyes furrowed, before groaning in resignation. "I don't believe this," he grumbled, all jocularity in his demeanor now out the proverbial window. "Damn Khajiit caravans. I'm not letting them in again. Not if they plan on doing _this_ in my inn all the time. I'm not having it!"

"You think it was a Khajiit?" Gaius asked through gritted teeth. That niggling feeling in his brain was back. Something was wrong.

"I'm almost certain of it," said Corpulus grimly. "Give me a moment, I'll head downstairs and check the ledger just to be sure. Cut her down and get her dressed before she causes a scene. I've got some questions I'd like to ask her about who left her there."

He left the room and shut the door, still grumbling about the private proclivities and personal predilections of Tamriel and its people. Once he was gone, Gaius took out his sword, slicing the ropes that bound the girl neatly in two. Now that he could see her better (though he still did his best to avert his eyes), the woman was a Nord—and incredibly pale for one, he had to admit. There were almost no blemishes at all to her ivory-colored skin, save for a scar running from jaw to clavicle across her neck, and a painted handprint above her round breasts.

The girl stirred.

"Easy," Gaius said gently, taking her by the hand. "You've been knocked out. Can you talk?"

The maiden shook her head imperceptibly, and for a moment Gaius wondered if this woman had been drugged. Then she pointed to the scar on her neck—which was quite deep, he noticed, now that he came to have a closer look—and immediately he understood.

"Can you understand me?" he asked, enunciating his words clearly, making sure the mute could get his message as best as possible. But he need not have worried: the woman nodded almost immediately, and with more gusto this time. He exhaled; so she hadn't been drugged. Whoever had done this to her had some standards, at least—though that wasn't saying much, all thing considered.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

Another nod.

"Okay. I'm going to get you on your feet. Hold on."

He bent over to pick up the maiden, and carefully hoisted her up with very little effort; she was very light, enough so that Gaius could probably have carried her over the shoulder if he was insane enough to try. Very gently, he brought the Nord to her feet, keeping a steady hand on her in case she unbalanced.

What happened next, Gaius Maro never saw coming.

It happened very fast, faster than his eyes were able to perceive. As soon as her bare feet had touched the wooden floor, the girl immediately lunged for him, and he felt her wet lips press down on his in a passionate kiss. It was all Gaius could do to keep on his own two feet, even as the maiden's tongue crept into his mouth. He could taste her saliva; it was surprisingly bitter, but his mind was a million miles away.

And the girl wasn't done; Gaius could hear her moaning inside his mouth, and feel her fingernails clawing at his back, his shoulders, even his backside and the back of his bare neck. He knew his uniform was rumpled beyond any acceptable state at this point. Gaius winced at the wetness of the fingernails as they grasped at his neck, and the surprising sharpness of them—he wondered if he'd been scratched—

Finally, the girl broke away from him, licking her lips, still moaning as if they'd just made love. Gaius was flabbergasted; he could not quite believe what had just happened. His mind was racing, and sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. Corpulus was Faida's cousin! There was no way he had not heard this—Gaius could almost hear the bartender's footsteps thundering up the stairs, and that only seemed to make him sweat more.

The soldier felt sick. How could he explain himself to Faida now?!

And then his eyes, roving about the room in panic, alighted on an object that made him forget about this kiss, about the passion and his subsequent panic. He knew what it was; he'd seen it before, just before he'd left Faida—and he knew just from looking at it that a Khajiit had not left him here.

It was a carved wooden lute.

Gaius Maro felt his body stiffening in terror, and he felt a constricting feeling in his throat as the pieces began to fall into place.

He whirled around at the woman—then, quite suddenly, he lost his balance, and fell on his feet.

_What?!_

His limbs were not responding at all! He could feel his body continuing to stiffen, and his throat was continuing to tighten. _What was going on?!_ Gaius thought madly. He tried to cry out, to call at the girl to help him. But the words could not come out of his mouth; the air were being choked from his very lungs.

Gaius tried to wave a hand, move his body, anything that could signal _Help me! Help me!_ But the woman stayed where she was. Indeed, she took the time to don a nightgown from a nearby dresser, then sat back down on the bed and laid her hands on her lap—almost as if she was watching him like some play!

And it was this more than anything—the sheer calmness of the woman before him—that finally made Gaius Maro understand the truth.

_I'm being murdered!_

It was the last cogent thought his mind could think. Already his vision was beginning to turn gray, and he could not even take a single breath. Gaius could feel foam trickling out of his mouth, and he smelled his own defecation.

Then he pitched forward onto the bed, his balance completely gone. Gaius Maro felt only a sensation of his face hitting the soft mattress, then a dainty hand reaching under his cuirass, and then there was nothing at all, but for the eternal embrace of the void beyond …

* * *

Meanwhile, Corpulus Vinius had retired to his own room. He had managed to hold it in as long as he could without any of his patrons giving him funny looks.

But here, in the solitude of his own bed, he finally let the implications of what he had just done crash around him.

The sheet of paper, with handwritten instructions, had already been burned—as had the sizable coin purse, the contents of which had been tossed out of the window in disgust: hush money—_blood money_, fouled up with the promise of unthinkable deeds committed under his own roof.

Corpulus had had no idea anything like this would happen. True, he hadn't exactly been under the impression she was reserving a room for a guest—but he had no idea that the man she was after was an officer in an organization so close to the Emperor! And he especially had no idea that this man was the same one his own cousin so adored!

The moment he had seen the naked woman secured to the bed, Corpulus knew instantly he'd gone in too deep. He'd mumbled some tripe about perverted Khajiit, something—_anything_—to give him an excuse to leave and get back to his counter as if nothing had happen.

But something _had_ happened; Corpulus knew it in his aging bones. And now, here he was, an accessory to the murder of a high-ranking officer! He'd be lucky to get off with treason now!

His eyes fell to the object on his table—the one remaining thing that the mysterious woman had sent him. He had not thought much of it at first, considering it some cheap token of generosity. But the more Corpulus looked at it, the more he believed he knew why it had been given to him.

Slowly, deliberately, the bartender turned the lock on his door. He did not want Sorex to see this—nor, Mara forbid, his darling Minette. He prayed to each of the Eight in turn to forgive him for this … and finally, for his two children to forgive him as well. There would be nothing left behind—nothing to implicate them, nothing to soil their hands in this foul deed.

Then—more slowly still—Corpulus Vinius stiffened, straightened his neck … and picked up the steel dagger.

* * *

_Next chapter: Things go from bad to worse for Grimnir._

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the late (and hopefully, not ****_too_**** substandard) update; I've been sick and snowed in for about half of February, and this, among other things, pretty much killed off a lot of my motivation to do anything at all.**

**Anyhow, this little plot thread with Grimnir and Onmund wasn't in my initial plan for ****_First Seed_****; however, I wanted to try writing some more material based around personal drama, especially involving a canon character. I want to be a better-rounded writer, and I'm hoping this kind of experimentation into other genres can help me along that path. Let me know what you think—constructive criticism is always welcome here.**

**Thanks for reading! - K**


	7. VI

VI

Dawn arrived at Winterhold as if Akatosh himself had been aware of what had happened to his child the night before. A cold, icy rain poured upon the crust of snow that normally covered the town. The main road was a disgusting mixture of mud and slush, and Faralda had been forced to abandon her normal post at the entrance to the College, owing to the fact that the already precarious bridge separating it from the rest of town was now next to impassable.

Grimnir had not returned to the College last night. The Arch-Mage lay prone on an understuffed bed in the Frozen Hearth, unable to sleep, the gusts of wind hissing through the drafty walls of the inn. He had not moved a muscle since stumbling in nearly a whole day ago; his mood had taken a most unpleasant turn after slaying that dragon. He could still see Onmund's face in his mind's eye, those eyes full of shock and disappointment … and terror …

_How could you have lied to me?!_

A knock on his door sprang him from his reverie just then—but beyond this, Grimnir didn't have the energy to acknowledge it, never mind to answer it. He didn't even have the energy to get up from his bed, or crane his neck to look at the door—in fact, he didn't have the energy to do anything at all. But the knocking continued; Grimnir thought he heard voices on the other side, but he was too absorbed in his mood to really pay attention beyond that.

He suddenly heard the lock turn over, and the door creak open. Footsteps, now—and then, a shadow fell over Grimnir's face, staring back down at him from what felt like mere inches' distance.

"You look terrible," Grimnir heard a familiar voice say—and it was this, more than anything else, that persuaded him to finally crack open an eye.

Brelyna Maryon was hovering above his face, inspecting him with an expression that no magic in the world could help Grimnir to read. Her normally immaculate robes looked as if they'd been dragged through Riften's Ratway, covered in mud and soaked through completely.

"You look worse," he groaned ruefully.

The Dunmer looked at her robes with no small amount of disgust. "We had to sneak past Faralda to cross, or we'd have been here long before now," she said apologetically. "She's closed the bridge off completely—this storm out there is only going to get worse."

"We?" Grimnir frowned—had she not come alone? "Brelyna, what … "

He made to sit up from his bed, and in so doing, Grimnir answered his own question: J'zargo was standing on the threshold of the door, just out of his previous field of view. The Khajiit's arms were folded, his narrowed eyes were staring unblinkingly at Grimnir, and the rest of his expression was entirely unreadable. And next to him was—

Grimnir felt the sour feeling redouble in his chest as he sat bolt upright in his bed. "What are you doing here?!" he asked, fatigue immediately forgotten amidst the wave of anger that had suddenly washed over him.

"Ask her," said Onmund with a careless wave towards Brelyna. He was not looking at Grimnir, instead focusing on a spot just above his head. "I didn't want to come along, _either_."

"We … " J'zargo began, but suddenly his eyes flicked towards Onmund, and he hastily cleared his throat, "_this one _has been very worried about you. When you did not show yourself on the grounds last night, Brelyna feared for your sanity. Recent times have been troubling, yes, but for you most of all, no?"

"You haven't answered my question," growled Grimnir as he turned back to Brelyna. "What are you doing here? And why is _he_—?"

SMACK.

Stars danced in the Arch-Mage's eyes as his cheek—the one scarred by the necromancer inside Hob's Fall Cave—erupted in awful pain. The force of Brelyna's slap—entirely unexpected by anyone—sent a swearing Grimnir off-balance, where he fell sprawling onto the shabby bedspread.

Brelyna towered over him with the most terrible look Grimnir had ever seen on the dark elf's face. "Because," she snarled, teeth clenched in absolute fury, "I am _not_ going to stand by and let Skyrim be turned into a gods-damned _charnel house _simply because _two mages_ believed their own _thoughts_ were more important than the lives of _thousands of innocent people!_"

Grimnir had never seen Brelyna lose control like this. Her hiss had risen into a shriek, her hands were balled into fists, and her hair was beginning to shake loose from its twin plaits.

Only when the Dunmer's tirade had ended did the Arch-Mage realize he was trembling head to foot. Not even the brief feeling of gratification he felt upon seeing the abashed look on Onmund's face failed to stem the tide of shame he felt burning inside his stomach.

He could only manage to stammer, "My own—but—he was the one who—" before, again, he quailed under the stare Brelyna was giving him.

"Please don't take that tone with me, Grimnir," the dark elf groaned—her tone more measured, but her anger no less diminished. "The weather outside is _terrible_, the bridge is even _worse_, and if you haven't noticed by now, the province is in _crisis!_ This is not the time for two grown men to _bicker like children_, and I won't stand for it!"

Grimnir's eyes flitted to Onmund briefly, and saw that he too was shrinking back from Brelyna. This time, though, he felt no surge of grim satisfaction to distract him from the torrent of emotions brewing inside him right now.

Deep down, the Arch-Mage knew that once again, Brelyna was right. He'd been a fool—he'd let everything that had happened yesterday cloud his mind to the bigger picture. There was a time in his life where a single dragon would have indeed been that "bigger picture"—and now that time had passed. People were dying all around them—and this was how he'd chosen to commemorate their passing? By slaying a dragon and losing the trust of one of the few people he'd truly been able to call a friend?

Brelyna must have seen him moping, because she immediately snapped at him, "No. Don't feel sorry for yourself on me, Grimnir. I didn't risk my neck crossing the bridge in this weather just so I could slap you in the face."

She shot a look at Onmund before turning back to the Arch-Mage. "Now," she said, keeping her voice as level as possible. "You two are going to sit down. Things happened yesterday that neither of you know the full story to. I'm going to help make sure you talk them over like _reasonable people_—because the sooner you do, the sooner we can get back to saving the world. We've got too many axes hanging over our heads as it is. Understood?"

Even if he wanted to, Grimnir didn't feel as if he had it in him to disagree. " … Understood," he grumbled—and so did Onmund, to his slight surprise. He felt the mattress sink slightly to his right as the Nord sat down beside him.

Brelyna, meanwhile, settled in a wooden chair next to the bed, while J'zargo continued to stand beside the door. "I feel like I should start at the beginning, Grimnir," the Dunmer said, much more patiently, diplomatically. It was much like the voice he himself had tried to use during that peace conference, Grimnir thought—neutral, arbitrary, favoring neither one party nor the other.

"Shortly after you left the session to deal with that dragon," Brelyna began, "Onmund pulled me aside. He told me that he had some doubts about your claim to not need to read Words on tombstones anymore. He also told me that he did not believe you were taking this new avenue of study simply because you wanted to respect the privacy of Nordic tombs. Am I right so far?" she asked Onmund.

The Nord said nothing, but merely nodded. He still did not look at Grimnir.

"Onmund then broke away from me, with the intent to catch up with you," continued Brelyna. "J'zargo and I hurried after him, and caught up with him right as we caught up with you, Grimnir—around the time you Shouted that storm into existence.

"And this," the dark elf sighed, "is where things get muddy. I'm going to give you both the benefit of the doubt here, but that doesn't excuse what either of you did. And there are going to be consequences, Tolfdir told me—for both of you. But we'll get to that later."

_Consequences?_ Grimnir felt an uneasy feeling in his gut, like something cold and heavy had slid down his throat. Tolfdir was normally a kindly soul, but Grimnir remembered his predecessor, Mirabelle Ervine, to be a rather severe woman. He had never quite found out if that severity came from her mood, or as part of her job as Master Wizard.

"Right now, I want to hear both sides of the story. And I'm going to start with you, Onmund," said Brelyna. "Grimnir's got a lot more explaining to do than you—but I have the feeling that he won't be able to say his piece until he learns from you what happened … before he slew that dragon."

Grimnir frowned, interested. _Before_ he'd slain Bahlokmaar? Had they seen something he had not?

Onmund was silent for some time, and Grimnir began to wonder if the Nord really wanted to talk about this at all—impending crisis be damned. But he need not have worried; Onmund cleared his throat, and—still not looking in Grimnir's direction—began to speak.

"I had to see it with my own eyes," he said hoarsely, not at all like his normal self. "How you could make new Shouts—using Words we'd never heard before. I know that you can take in the souls and knowledge of other dragons when you kill them—but I also know you can't use that knowledge without knowing a specific Word of the dragon language, right?"

Grimnir wasn't entirely sure where Onmund was going with this, but he nodded all the same. And it was here, now, that Onmund finally turned to look at Grimnir, and the Arch-Mage could not help but wince; the apprentice's eyes looked no less bloodshot than they had the other day.

"So explain what I saw yesterday!" Onmund said, his voice raised, almost feral in its sudden display of emotion.

Brelyna made a small noise in her throat, and Onmund's anger wilted almost as suddenly as it had flared up. When he next spoke, his voice was much softer, as if he didn't want Grimnir to hear what he was saying.

"When that dragon fell from the cliff," he said, "something about you … _changed_. I—we all saw the dragon's body start to burn … but _you_ were on fire as well."

Grimnir drew back in shock. _That_ was news to him—and most certainly unexpected news at that. He tried to think back to that battle, when he was absorbing Bahlokmaar's soul, but his memory seemed to consist of nothing but fire—all-consuming, all around him. Had that, then, been when—?

"It wasn't normal fire," Onmund went on, "it didn't burn like regular fire. Half the time, it didn't even look like it was even _there_ … like it was ghostly or something. But then it started forming shapes … all spiky and … black … "

Grimnir was forgetting his anger with Onmund with each passing moment. He could not believe he was hearing this from the apprentice's mouth. Had Onmund seen what he had seen, then, as it formed in the last burst of flames that consumed the body of Bahlokmaar? And if so …

"Did they look like the dragon language to you?" Grimnir asked, cutting off Onmund before he could change the subject. "These shapes you saw in the fire?"

Onmund blinked. "I might have seen something like that," he replied, almost off-handedly. "But there were other shapes as well—and they were forming around _you_."

Again, Grimnir was flabbergasted. _What was going on here?_ "What kind of shapes?" he asked hurriedly, so determined to find out the source of this unexpected mystery that he sounded like a desperate, broken man. "Onmund, the more you can tell me about what you saw out there, the more I might be able to tell you back!"

And now Onmund was drawing back away from the Arch-Mage, his eyes not daring to look in Grimnir's direction. "I s-saw … ghosts … " he stammered. "Black s-scales … b-black w-wings … a-and … a t-t-tail … "

It felt as if Grimnir had been thrown from the topmost tower of the College, straight into the Sea of Ghosts. "That's impossible," he heard himself saying in utter disbelief, miles away from the bed he was sitting on. "Only I could have seen that … "

_You and I are bound together, Dovahkiin—for now and for ever!_

"What do you mean?" Onmund asked. "Seen what?"

"I think this is where you need to start explaining yourself," said Brelyna with a look at Grimnir. "You'd better start from the beginning. What did you do to that dragon you fought? How have you been making these new Shouts?"

Grimnir did not really know what to say—he could not truly answer one without answering the other. But he took one look at Onmund, and saw that—for the first time since he'd last seen him—the anger was fading from his face, rapidly giving way to that most human of desires: the desire to know the _truth_.

Grimnir knew he had to try, at the very least. And he decided to start at the only place he knew.

"There was some truth to what I told you, Onmund," he began, "about how I didn't want to seek any more Words at the expense of our ancestors' tombs."

Onmund said nothing.

"It was Savos, really, that made me convinced about it," Grimnir went on. "Do you remember how we encountered his spirit inside Labyrinthian? Do you remember what he told us about what had happened in there?"

All of them did indeed remember. It had only been less than two weeks ago, in fact, that they had encountered the apparition of their former Arch-Mage inside that immense tomb-city. The ghostly Dunmer had imparted his memories of his own visit there to the four mages, told them of how he and five other mages of the College had come to that cursed place in their youth, star-struck by the temptation of riches in both knowledge and gold.

It had ended in disaster. One had been ripped to pieces before they'd even left the entry chamber. Another had simply vanished off the face of the earth, slain so quickly that her demise had gone unnoticed. A third succumbed to despair, and abandoned them, resigned to her impending death. And compared to what had been waiting for them, Grimnir knew that that half of the group had gotten off easy.

_Morokei_. Grimnir had only faced a dragon priest once before in his life, and he had not been keen to repeat the experience any time soon. Morokei had been too much for Savos and the pitiful remains of his group to battle; their only hope had been to seal the horrible lich away. Savos had done so, but at the cost of the last of his friends—he had bound their spirits to the place, to hold Morokei and his power at bay for all eternity. Finally, Savos had sealed off the whole of Labyrinthian, that the legion of monstrosities contained within could never threaten the world again.

When Grimnir had destroyed Morokei those weeks ago, and finally learned the truth of the matter, he had been furious with Savos for not telling him all this. Up until that point, he had seen the departed Dunmer as a figure with power as great as his authority—if perhaps a _laissez-faire_ attitude in both regards. Now, though, all he could see of Savos was a coward who had sacrificed his friendship to save his own skin. Maybe the Dunmer had had his scruples—it had been the only way; he'd been thinking about the "bigger picture."

But then again, so had Grimnir.

"I didn't want to go the same way as Savos did," he continued, and it never struck him until later just how heavy his voice was feeling right now, "and I didn't want to make the same mistakes he did. I don't see any of you as _sacrifices_ or _pawns_," he said resolutely, hardening his voice. "And I know that if I were Savos, and I was facing Morokei back then … I'd have let that damned lich kill me, rather than use you the way he used his friends."

Onmund's jaw was hanging so loose that it looked nearly dislocated. Evidently he had not been expecting this train of thought at all, the Arch-Mage thought.

"On our way back to Winterhold," Grimnir continued, "I made a vow: I would never tread inside a tomb for the rest of my life, unless I was alone. Labyrinthian was only one of many in Skyrim. I didn't want to take the risk that there might be worse things out there than _Morokei_. Your lives are worth more to me than that. Especially considering who I am now," he added, absentmindedly stroking the robes of his station with a gloved finger.

He paused here for a breath, and to see the effect of his words; Grimnir had not told any of the mages of this vow before—though to be fair, if the entire affair with M'Alga had not started immediately thereafter, there might have been time to talk about it long before this moment. All three of the apprentices were dumbstruck, even Brelyna, whose eyes looked ready to glisten with tears. J'zargo's normally beady eyes were wide in admiration.

But Grimnir only had eyes for Onmund. For only a moment, he had seen a smile flit about the Nord's mouth. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but to Grimnir, that smile had been extravagant praise considering what everyone had been through.

"So it wasn't simply about respecting the dead?" Onmund asked, finally breaking the awed silence. "You were just trying to keep history from repeating itself?"

"That's about it," said Grimnir. "Maybe I'm not as devoted to tradition as you are when it comes to respecting the dead, but if it makes you feel better, I still won't loot a burial urn if I can help it, either—though I can't say the same for J'zargo," he added with a wink in the Khajiit's direction.

Everyone laughed briefly at this—even Onmund, much to Grimnir's relief—while J'zargo glared back at them in mock indignation. It felt good to have a lighthearted moment like this, Grimnir thought, amidst all the turbulence of both the events of yesterday and the weather of today. It made him forget—if only for a moment—the depths he had sunk to in order to claim what he had.

Unfortunately, that was exactly when Brelyna chose to dive back in to the conversation. "And what happened to you after you slew the dragon?" she asked. "Did that have anything to do with wanting to make these new Shouts?"

Grimnir had been prepared for the sinking feeling, but it still left a disagreeable feeling in his insides all the same.

"I've known since Saarthal how seriously the Nords take ancestor worship—and none more so than you, Onmund, out of all the Nords I've met," Grimnir told him. "I started to wonder about how I might find alternatives to raiding tombs just to find a treasure that might not even exist—and even if it did, might not help me in any way.

"So I started searching the Arcaneum for tomes that might contain some more accounts of the dragon language—the theory being that if I could read a Word on a tombstone, it wouldn't be any different to read it on parchment. Unfortunately, Urag could offer me very little help in that field—and what little he gave me had nothing I didn't already know. Which meant I had to … _improvise_."

"Improvise?" Onmund asked, leaning closer. He sounded apprehensive, and Grimnir couldn't blame him—especially given what he was finally about to reveal.

"Let me tell you something about the dragons," the Arch-Mage explained. "They're hungry creatures to a one—driven by greed and desire … the want to possess _more_. They covet gold and precious stones, and all other manner of riches, but above all this, they desire power. And knowledge, to them, is quite literally power—knowledge of the Words.

"When one dragon slays another, then the treasure possessed by the one that was slain is the victor's by right. This treasure can be gold or other such riches—or, as I've said, knowledge. I can absorb the souls of other dragons simply because I have beaten them—their souls, and their knowledge, literally belong to me."

"So that's what you did?" Brelyna asked, skeptical. "That can't be all to it. We've all seen you take down dragons before, and none of what we saw yesterday happened at all during any of those times."

"You're right, of course," said Grimnir. "Because all of those times happened before I finally discovered a breakthrough in my quest.

"In hindsight, I was amazed I didn't figure it out sooner. But I came to discover that there is one thing that _every_ dragon possesses. To most, it might be insignificant in the grand scheme of things—certainly for a soul as consumed by greed as a dragon. But unlike Words and souls and wealth, this _one thing_ cannot be parted from any dragon—not by mere force alone. Dragons are just as proud as they are greedy—they will not part with this treasure to anyone they consider beneath them. It must be given willingly, and to those they consider of equal or greater standing. Do you know what that one thing might be?"

Silence. Even Brelyna looked stumped as she tried to fathom the Arch-Mage's question.

"I'll give you a hint," said Grimnir, feeling the ghost of a smile play out on his face. "It's something we all have, too. Every man, every mer, and every beast as well."

There followed more silence, and more confusion on the part of the other mages.

One long minute later, J'zargo finally ventured a guess. "A name?"

Grimnir grinned. "Precisely," he said. "Every dragon has a _name_. I tamed Odahviing only because I bested not only him in combat, but Alduin himself as well. To Odahviing, that was proof of my mastery over him, and as a symbol of this, he placed his name with me—giving it _willingly_, as I just said. And just like my Shouts," Grimnir said, leaning in close, "their names, too, are made up of three Words of the dragon language.

Brelyna let out a gasp at this point, both hands flying to her mouth, and Grimnir suspected the Dunmer had just put two and two together.

"That's how you've been learning these new Shouts?" she asked, eyes wide as septims. "By learning their _names_?"

Grimnir grimaced. She wasn't wrong, to be fair. But … "Not exactly," he said, feeling his voice grow heavy again. "I don't know if I'd call it _learning_. Not in the literal sense of the word, anyway.

"Like I said, a dragon's name is its most jealously guarded secret. They won't part with it, even on their dying breath." He paused. "Normally."

Onmund was looking at Grimnir with an expression of mingled admiration and fear. Grimnir could feel the revelation coming, building in his chest like dragon-fire, and he instinctively knew that one emotion was much more warranted than the other.

"You found a way, didn't you?" he said, more quietly than Grimnir had ever believed his voice could be. "I don't know how … but you took that dragon's name—_against his will_. Is that right?"

Wordlessly, Grimnir nodded.

Brelyna looked faint, unable to talk any louder than a squeak. "That's … that's … "

"Exactly why I didn't want you to find out this way," said Grimnir sadly. "I didn't want you to see what I was doing, because I didn't want you to be in any danger—I wanted to protect you. But that was exactly what happened. I let myself get caught up in the battle—and because of that, I put you in harm's way. And I can't apologize enough for that," he sighed, "especially with you, Onmund. Maybe it wasn't for the reasons you thought, but you were very right to blame me for all this. I failed you all as Arch-Mage … but more than that, I failed you all as my _friend_."

Brelyna sighed. "Grimnir," she said softly, "I already told you—and I'm sure Onmund agrees with me—don't feel sorry for yourself. We're all glad that you want to apologize over all this. It's very human of you. But—"

The compliment piqued Grimnir's interest. _Human_ was a strange way of putting it, he thought—but for some reason, hearing the word put a strange warmth into Grimnir's insides, not at all like the inferno that had licked at his insides as Bahlokmaar lay dying before him—

Grimnir's mouth dropped as a sudden connection between the things that Onmund had seen that morning—and the things he had felt burning, raging inside his chest at the same time—sprang into his mind.

"It wasn't an illusion," he said softly, feeling the pieces of the puzzle click together. "But then it wasn't meant for you at all!"

"Sorry?" Brelyna looked nonplussed at the sudden outburst.

"Right when you all came up to me," Grimnir explained, "the Dragon Shouted at me. It was a fear spell—not unlike the one I'd been trying to master for some months now—but much more potent than anything a normal illusionist could hope to conjure. At first I thought the Shout might have hit the three of you as well as me—that was why I thought you all looked so terrified of the sight of me! I thought you were under the effects of the Shout … "

He broke off, feeling overwhelmed by the revelations. "But?" J'zargo pressed on.

"Before that—right after I'd created that lightning storm," said Grimnir, "I felt something in me. Something _burning_. Like I'd had a Dwarven furnace suddenly light up in my chest."

"You were speaking the dragon language," Onmund said. "We all heard it. Didn't know a word you were saying, of course—and we'd never heard you do it before … "

"Because I haven't," said Grimnir truthfully. "Not even when I'd started using the names of dragons to make my Shouts. Why it was that dragon specifically, I don't know. Maybe it was because he was tougher than any I've had to face lately. Even that storm I Shouted didn't bring him down completely. Then, right after you came, he hit me with that Shout, and I saw … I saw … "

But he did not finish his sentence; there was no need to, Grimnir knew. The three mages knew him well enough to understand that there was only one thing that could possibly be the Dragonborn's worst fear … only one dragon.

"That must have been when it happened," he eventually brought himself to say to Onmund, "those … _shapes_ you saw around me. I was trying to break through the illusion. And I did—but I must have used a little too much force, huh?"

"That's putting it mildly," Onmund said dryly, and Grimnir was glad later on that he was able to laugh at the jibe.

"Well," said Brelyna, "I'd say that about clears everything up on both ends. I've done about all I can—you've each said your pieces and explained yourselves. Now … Grimnir, Onmund … are you ready to put these events behind you, so that we can finally return to more demanding matters at hand?"

The two Nords looked at each other, blue eyes staring back into blue.

"Aye," Grimnir declared—how could he have said otherwise? After everything he'd said earlier, there was no reason to reject Onmund as a friend over a misunderstanding—if, perhaps, not a _simple_ misunderstanding.

"As long as we don't run into any more dragons on the way," said Onmund. "It's … I'd rather not have to see anything like that again. Not until I'm ready."

Grimnir had been expecting something of the sort, and he nodded. "I understand," he said.

A sudden noise, like someone's throat clearing, snapped the four mages out of their concentration. It would have been entirely unremarkable if it hadn't come from right outside the door of the room they were sitting in.

"Who comes?" J'zargo asked sharply, whirling around to face an Imperial soldier, barely a few feet away from the Khajiit. He was looking unmistakably at the mages—and Grimnir had an uncanny suspicion that he himself was the particular subject of attention.

Right away, the Arch-Mage knew this was no ordinary soldier. His uniform was unlike any Legionnaire's he'd yet seen in his time in Skyrim. The leather was darker, and the cuirass was emblazoned with a red diamond that did not contain a dragon, but a single eye enclosed by three long fangs. It was a symbol that Grimnir had never seen before.

Which immediately made him feel uneasy.

The soldier stepped forward. "I'm Agent Arcturus of the Penitus Oculatus," he introduced himself, pulling out a thin oaken cylinder from a satchel. "I was instructed to deliver this personally to Arch-Mage Grimnir Torn-Skull."

And just as suddenly as he'd appeared, he marched away, and out of the inn.

Grimnir knew instantly that that had been no mere courier; every syllable of this Arcturus' voice was heavy with military efficiency—not one moment of breath wasted in his words. And that name … _Penitus Oculatus_ …

He was saved from asking by Brelyna, however, whose eyes were currently wide with shock. "Grimnir, you'd better open that right now." She swallowed. "Penitus Oculatus is _Imperial special security_."

It was Grimnir's turn to be shocked now, and he almost didn't make sense of the meaningful look the Dunmer gave him as she said the last three words. "Imperial special security" could only mean one thing in this situation.

_The Emperor of Tamriel is in Skyrim_.

Almost automatically, Grimnir reached for the parchment inside the wooden tube. It was surprisingly small; he had been expecting some long-winded letter. Instead, however, when Grimnir unrolled the parchment, he only found five words in a practiced, but hurried-looking cursive.

_Find me in Solitude. Now._

There was no signature. Even so, as he passed the note around for Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo to see, every last one of Grimnir's alarm bells were going off in his head. Only one person could have the possible resources to know the Arch-Mage's whereabouts at all times—_and_ have the authority to send an agent of Titus Mede II's personal security force to summon him to the one remaining major city in Skyrim that was under absolute Imperial control.

And it looked as though he, too, had come to understand just how much danger the Emperor was in.

J'zargo frowned. "Who is this from?"

Grimnir looked him dead in the eye. "General Tullius."

* * *

"We leave on the double," Brelyna said, as they rushed out of the inn barely three minutes later. "We'll worry about supplies when we actually get there."

The storm had not abated one bit during the mages' conversation; indeed, it only seemed to have intensified in the time since. Grimnir was immediately soaked in freezing rain, high winds whipped at his robes and bit into his exposed flesh, and he nearly slipped and fell on his backside in the veritable lake of mud that had formed right before the doorstep of the Frozen Hearth.

"I'll call Odahviing," Grimnir yelled, unable to carry his voice any other way because of the horrid weather. "Tullius wouldn't summon me like this if he didn't want me over there on the spot. When a man like him says 'now,' he _means it_."

"No!"

Grimnir turned, incredulously, to look at Onmund, who had spoken just now.

"No," the Nord said again, shaking his head to and fro. "Not Odahviing! There's a carriage right over there," he added, pointind to a horse-drawn cart that had taken shelter under one of the ruined buildings left over from the Great Collapse. "We … we can get to Solitude that way. I just … I just don't want anything to do with dragons for right now. Okay?"

Whether it was because of the storm, or because of his friend's nerves in light of recent events, Grimnir did not want to debate this for very long. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It'd be slower. The way this storm is going, we might not be there for days!" _And M'Alga could very well have attacked half the other Jarls in the province by the time we get there, _he thought—_not to mention the Emperor!_

"But it'd be safer," replied Onmund. "For everyone."

Grimnir knew he had a point, and nodded. He wasn't keen on having to put Onmund through any more trouble, anyway.

"All right," he said. "I understand."

* * *

A minute later, Brelyna was almost forcing a fat sack of gold into the carriage driver's hands while everyone else was clambering on board.

"Where're you off to?"

"Solitude," panted Brelyna, completely out of breath from the weather and the tension of their mission. "The quicker you get us there, the better we'll pay you for your trouble. The security of Tamriel is at stake—so no more questions, just get us to the city gates _yesterday!_"

And without further ado, the horse was spurred into a trot, and its hooves splattered against the mess of mud and slush as the cart began its long journey west to Skyrim's capital city.

* * *

So absorbed were Grimnir and the mages in facing the prospect of confronting M'Alga again—of saving the Emperor from a certain, grisly fate—that they were totally oblivious to their surroundings. Had they bothered to take a glimpse of the main road at that moment, they would have seen three figures, each clad in clothes unknown to anyone in Skyrim—each concealed under an off-white mask of spiky, cracked bone—continuing to stare at the quartet as they left in the carriage.

"No doubt about it," said one of those masks in a rough voice, brown robes whipping in the wind. "It's _him_."

"What are we doing just skulking about, then?" asked a second voice impatiently, a female voice that was even rougher than her companion's. "He has to die for what he's—!"

"No," said the third, the tallest and calmest of the lot, yet his voice invited no debate whatsoever. "Not here. If we are seen, there will be an investigation. And _everything_ leads to _him_."

"As if our master could be stopped by something so insignificant!" scoffed the female. "These fools in Skyrim bleed each other dry over nothing—and that's precisely what they are to him! _Nothing!_"

"Won't we be seen eventually, though?" the first figure asked. "Is that not ultimately part of our master's plan?"

"It is," the other male agreed. "What this Dragonborn is capable of was not expected. Even our master would not dare to use that kind of power so callously. But that power only proves this so-called _Dragonborn_ is nothing more than a farce. He is ignorant and incapable of the true power that a _true_ Dragonborn wields."

The figure grit his teeth, unseen behind the mask. "Our master wants him hunted down, but the _pretender_ must not know. And we must keep it that way—right until the trap closes around him. We will shadow him, draw him away from his companions. And then … "

He deliberately let the remainder of his sentence hang in the air as they watched the carriage disappear into the storm. Then, the wind howled, and a sudden sheet of freezing rain lashed upon the rock ledge on which they stood.

But by the time it hit, the three figures, too, had vanished into nonexistence.

* * *

True to Grimnir's prediction, the journey to Solitude was much slower by carriage than by dragon. He was, however, determined not to damage his relationship with Onmund just as reparations had already begun, and so the Arch-Mage braved the wind and the cold, even as the freezing rain soaked him through to the bone. It helped that Brelyna had cast a very pleasant handful of flames around them all—although it took the better part of an hour for her to convince the driver that she was an able enough mage to keep said flames from devouring horse, carriage, and all inside, during which even Grimnir and Onmund were half frozen stiff from the horrible storm.

Fortunately, the storm's intensity lessened as they wound their way through Eastmarch, and by the time they had crossed into the Pale, the sun was at its zenith, and was beginning to peek out from the clouds for the first time in what felt like ages. The driver, here, now felt comfortable enough with having his horse go at a much faster pace than before, per Brelyna's instructions—and Grimnir, who had not trusted himself to risk wasting his breath in the wind and rain, felt comfortable—and warm—enough to speak.

"What were these consequences you were talking about this morning?" Grimnir asked Brelyna as the carriage rattled through Fort Dunstad, past a large number of dead bodies, half-covered by snow, which the Arch-Mage knew belonged to both Stormcloak and Imperial alike.

"Oh." Evidently Brelyna had not intended to elaborate either back then at the Frozen Hearth, or now en route to Solitude. "Well, I'd hoped Tolfdir would have been the one to tell you. My plan was to take you back to the College, so you could face him then. But, well, you know what they say about best-laid plans," she sighed.

Grimnir did not, in fact, know—and neither was he in the mood to. "Just tell me, Brelyna," he said irritably.

Another sigh. "You asked," shrugged the Dunmer. "Onmund … well, I forgot to mention that he punched me right before he left the grounds to meet up with you yesterday. Got me right in the stomach, too," she added, to Grimnir's combined dismay and amazement. "Tolfdir had to give him a formal reprimand for that."

That surprised Grimnir. "For punching you?" he said incredulously. If Mirabelle had been in charge, Onmund might have been lucky to get demoted right back to novice, he thought. Onmund had caught a lucky break, in his opinion.

"It … might have helped that he and I both gave him the benefit of the doubt," Brelyna said. "We've already established that Onmund meant well for you both, and as far as we're all concerned, you've mended your differences quite well.

"As for you, Grimnir," the Dunmer went on, and the Arch-Mage braced himself, "Tolfdir's put you on probation, so to speak. Until we can be absolutely sure that M'Alga has been killed for good, he's ordered you not to go running off on your own. That's partly why we're all here: Tolfdir thinks having friends close by you might dissuade you from doing anything especially hotheaded—like killing a dragon, for instance."

Grimnir winced. "So he doesn't want me killing any dragons at all?" he said in disbelief. Probation, he thought incredulously—Tolfdir must have had a right laugh about that, he thought, putting him of all people on _probation!_

"That's right," replied Brelyna. "None of the staff wants you taking any chances with them right now—not with the danger we're facing right now. You're the only person in the province with knowledge of how M'Alga works. And the College wants the three of us"—she indicated herself, Onmund, and J'zargo—"to make sure that knowledge doesn't die with you."

"Master Tolfdir has also put the College on full alert," added J'zargo. "He is in the process of sending students and staff to other cities throughout the province, that their security may also be bolstered against the threat of M'Alga. It is just as well that you have been ordered to Solitude. As far as Master Tolfdir is concerned, it is almost certainly M'Alga's next target."

"And he could be there already for all we know," Grimnir said, as the carriage made a sharp left turn, heading away from the nearby town of Dawnstar and bearing directly west. "Gods, I hope we're not too late … "

* * *

The next few hours were some of the tensest Grimnir had ever experienced. Even the knowledge that he was now on "probation," as Brelyna had said, was no distraction from what he was afraid was waiting for him. He kept having erratic dreams about seeing the provincial capital turned into an abattoir, filled to bursting with corpses of men, women, and children—all of whom, for some reason, seemed to be wearing the faces of Solitude's Jarl, Elisif the Fair, General Tullius, and a haughty-looking old man that Grimnir assumed must be the Emperor of Tamriel.

Fortunately, when the carriage rocketed through Haafingar as the sun was setting—thankfully, they had already passed Morthal; Grimnir assumed he had had one of those dreams at the time—the mages saw the enormous natural arch of stone rising from the delta of the River Karth. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when they saw that not a single wisp of smoke was to be found rising from the great city that had been built onto that arch.

"We got lucky," Brelyna said, not daring to conceal a smile.

"But we're still not there yet," Onmund told her. "How much longer?" he hollered at the driver.

"About an hour, give or take," said the Nord at the reins irritably. "Depends on when you quit asking me that!"

Onmund sat back down, looking slightly abashed. Grimnir, meanwhile, feeling immensely more at ease than he had been all day, felt the waves of fatigue crashing down upon him. As if the sight of Solitude alive and well had been some strange, silent order, Grimnir slumped in his seat, and drifted off to a dreamless sleep …

The next he knew, he was being shaken awake by what felt like a pair of furry gloves, and J'zargo's voice was ringing in his ears. "We are outside the gate," he hissed insistently. "Get up, you layabout!"

Grimnir halfheartedly swiped at the Khajiit's arms, to no avail. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbled, and only then did J'zargo release him.

A few moments later, Grimnir was quite fully awake as his mind caught up with what J'zargo was saying, and he nearly fell out of the carriage as the sight of Solitude's massive, nigh impregnable, and very much _intact_ gate stood before them. Half a dozen guardsmen stood either side of the great double doors. Grimnir noticed they seemed to be wearing the same uniforms as Agent Arcturus.

_Penitus Oculatus?_ he wondered. _Guarding the city gates?_

Four guardsmen pushed open the gates to admit them inside—perhaps, Grimnir thought idly, they had orders to let Grimnir in on sight. No doubt General Tullius would have given them an accurate enough description of him.

And speaking of the Daedra Lord …

His iron-gray hair looked thinner than when Grimnir had last seen him at High Hrothgar, and yet the glint in his eyes remained all the more evocative of a razor-keen blade, wielded by a professional … General Tullius stood directly beyond the gate, dressed to his usual military nines, eyeing Grimnir with a stare as piercing as any sword.

"Dragonborn." Tullius' tone was perfunctory, no-nonsense. "I see you got my message."

Grimnir felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He didn't like it when people called him Dragonborn—especially not when they had greater authority than he did. It was something he'd been trying to wean himself off, after all. But hearing it from Tullius was exceptionally irksome—as was often the case when one man had happened to have personally overseen the attempted beheading of another.

"There wasn't much of a message to send me, _General_," Grimnir replied back testily.

"You can thank the Penitus Oculatus for that," Tullius grunted, jerking his head towards several soldiers stationed nearby, who Grimnir realized were also wearing those darker leather uniforms. He had the strangest suspicion they were listening in on their conversation.

"The whole city has gone to hell over two days," the general continued to grumble, "and they haven't exactly been accommodating. The order came from them, Dragonborn. The Penitus Oculatus are the ones that want you here."

Brelyna and J'zargo made noises of surprise, but something else had grabbed Grimnir's interest. "What do you mean, the city went to hell?" he asked Tullius. "I'll admit I was expecting to see the city in ruins, seeing as you didn't have the time for small talk in your letter. But everything looks fine to me."

"That's because you didn't take up my offer," Tullius said coolly. "You're not a Legionnaire. So of course you aren't seeing this from their point of view. This business with the Emperor has been working us all to the bone. And then, of course, the murder … "

The mages started. "What murder?" J'zargo yelped.

Tullius sighed. "You see that man over there?" he asked, pointing across the street. Grimnir followed his finger to a man with long brown hair, his hand stroking the hair of the little girl clutching at his knee like a lifeline. Both of them wore the same look of stricken horror that suggested someone very close to them had died, and the awful truth had yet to sink in. A small knot of people surrounded them, and each person appeared to be comforting the duo.

"Sorex Vinius," explained the general, "and that's his sister Minette right next to him. Their father Corpulus ran the inn across the street … up until recently."

Grimnir had only visited the Winking Skeever once before, and that had only been to meet a wood elf with a bloody history. He had not stayed long, and he therefore had no knowledge of who this Corpulus Vinius might have been.

"What happened?" Onmund asked.

Tullius sighed. "We're still trying to put the pieces together with the few guards we can spare," he said heavily. "Night before last, a man called Gaius Maro was found dead in the master bedroom of the inn. But that wasn't even the half of it—the morning after, Sorex found his father in _his_ bedroom—with a dagger stuck through his heart. The room was locked from the inside."

"_K'sharraj_," swore J'zargo. Brelyna had a hand over her mouth in horror. Onmund looked pale.

Grimnir, however, pressed on. "Did the innkeeper kill this man, then?"

The general nodded. "We think he had a hand in it, at the very least," he said. "We searched the room and found a pile of gold tossed outside his window. Beyond that … we don't know. The man died without a mark on his body—poisoned, by the looks of it. Healers found traces of undiluted netch jelly on his mouth."

"Netch jelly?" Onmund frowned in confusion, but Brelyna seemed to understand—and she did not look happy.

"You can only find that stuff around the island of Solstheim these days," she explained. "It's the only place you can find any sizable herds of netch anymore after Vvardenfell erupted. Netch jelly's a strong paralysis agent when it's undiluted—rumor has it the Morag Tong use the stuff in their assassinations—"

She broke off suddenly, eyes suddenly widening. Grimnir knew the look of a person who was beginning to put two and two together.

Apparently, so did Tullius. "Exactly," he said, nodding grimly. "And there's no indication he had so much as a drop of the stuff behind his counter, either."

He straightened up, and his tone became more no-nonsense than before, every inch the Imperial general that Grimnir had first seen at Helgen in passing, shortly before his scheduled execution.

"These are the facts we know," he said. "Right now, there are two people in this city that—dare I say it—demand more attention than you, Arch-Mage. One is the Emperor of Tamriel. The other is his chief of security, Commander Maro, who just so happens to be the father of the man who was killed in that inn—who himself was _also_ part of the Emperor's personal security, and more to the point, was personally in charge of overseeing the preparations for the Emperor's arrival in Skyrim."

"Security … " Grimnir murmured, thinking about the strangely uniformed man that had delivered his letter, and the soldiers standing guard at the city gates. "Then this Gaius Maro was Penitus Oculatus, too?"

"That's right," said Tullius. He suddenly maneuvered to within inches of Grimnir—perhaps on the pretext of inspecting his clothing? Grimnir wondered—and dropped his voice to a near whisper, to where only the five of them could possibly hear what the general was saying.

"You never heard this from me," Tullius hissed, "but the Penitus Oculatus are doing their damnedest to make sure that word about this case doesn't spread. If they found out that I disclosed any of this, even to you, I might not be a General for much longer."

Grimnir frowned. "Why?"

Tullius looked left and right before he answered, as if to make sure no one was listening in. "The guards found something on Gaius Maro's person. A letter. It sounds as if he'd been conspiring with the Stormcloaks … to kill the Emperor."

Grimnir's eyes widened. Onmund was incredulous. "Just how many people want this man dead?" he exclaimed.

"Can you prove this?" Grimnir's tone was skeptical. Something about that sounded off—the timing was too convenient, considering the political climate of the province right now. And he knew Ulfric Stormcloak would never consider going to such lengths in his quest to eradicate the Empire—their presence in Skyrim was one thing, but assassinating the Emperor himself was quite another!

Tullius, for his part, seemed to share the same opinion. "We're not ruling out the possibility of a hoax," he told Grimnir, "but neither are we ruling out a genuine threat. That's why I called you up here. If anyone decides to make good on this threat, Stormcloak or no—they'll have the Arch-Mage and the _Dragonborn_ to answer to. No one could possibly threaten the Emperor then," he smiled daringly.

"I can think of a few who might try," said Grimnir coolly.

The smile faded from Tullius' face almost as soon as it had appeared. "What do you mean?" he said sharply. "Is there something you know about all this, Arch-Mage?"

For a moment, Grimnir wondered about filling Tullius in on everything; the necromancers, the monster they had created, the extensive destruction and numerable deaths they'd already caused in Skyrim. But the Penitus Oculatus were no mere city guard, he knew. There was worse than M'Alga to be found around the Imperial City, surely—and that place, too, had had more than its fill of the Black Worm in days of old. Whether the Emperor's security could stop M'Alga was a matter of opinion, he thought—but Grimnir believed they were drilled well enough to at least hold him off until the Arch-Mage could deal with him personally.

So he refrained from mentioning the topic outright—no need for unnecessary panic. "Did you hear about what happened to Idgrod?" he asked, lowering his own voice.

"I did," said Tullius sadly. "My condolences—if it weren't for these troubled times, I'd attend her funeral personally. I wish I'd been there to help her."

"Well, I was there," said Grimnir. "And believe me when I say you couldn't have found a better man for the job." For a moment, he thought he'd seen Tullius' brow furrow—had he picked up on the double meaning in the Arch-Mage's words?

"Good man." He apparently had not; Grimnir didn't know if that ought to make him feel better at all.

"Commander Maro's in the courtyard of Castle Dour, on top of the hillside yonder," said Tullius, pointing over his shoulder. "You'll be reporting to him."

And without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, and marched off elsewhere.

* * *

As they began their trek through the streets of Solitude, Onmund pointed out the number of Imperial soldiers patrolling the city. Most of them, Grimnir saw, wore the darker leather of Penitus Oculatus agents. It struck him how rigid and unwavering they looked, even when compared to normal footsoldiers of the Empire.

Two such agents now pulled up just ahead of them as they entered the castle courtyard. They did not appear to have noticed the mages, and indeed seemed to be deeply absorbed in conversation with each other.

"This city is crawling with Legionnaires," said one of them. "And you know what? I'm still nervous. Lazy and useless, the lot of them—can't even keep the Stormcloaks in line. No way I trust _them_ with the Emperor's life."

"You worry too much," said his companion. "The Emperor's never been safer. You think assassination attempts are planned overnight? We discovered the plot. End of threat."

"I suppose," said the first guard with a shrug. "But what about the old man? Son killed, the family name ruined—and he's acting like nothing even happened. Think he's even fit for duty?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." There was an unmistakably severe tone to the second guard's words now. "Commander Maro is the best the Penitus Oculatus has ever produced. You should be _half_ the man he is!"

"No, no, you misunderstand," said his friend, holding up his arms in surrender. "It's just … I feel for him, is all. To have to carry a weight like that … it's got to take its toll. That happened to me, I'd be a wreck."

They disappeared down a doorway at this point, and Grimnir could hear no more.

An elbow in his ribs distracted him suddenly. He whirled around to face Brelyna, who was pointing opposite the doorway, towards a tower on the other side of the courtyard—and the man standing guard at its door could only be Commander Maro.

Grimnir thought that that Penitus Oculatus agent from before might have had a point: there was no trace of sadness or fury to be seen in the Imperial's face at all. There was, however, a flame in the commander's gray eyes that Grimnir knew all too well—a look of determination so strong that the Arch-Mage briefly wondered if the man had some Nord blood in him.

Brelyna nodded at him reassuringly, and Grimnir strode forward—

—only to be rebuffed by Commander Maro. "Halt!" barked the Imperial. "This castle is off-limits to outsiders."

If Maro's face betrayed nothing as to recent events, Grimnir thought, then his words betrayed even less. The commander was as stern a man as Grimnir had ever met, and that included General Tullius—and Maro's voice alone made him certain this was not a man to cross in any circumstance. There was only one thing for it.

Grimnir puffed out his chest as best he could—when dealing with anyone affiliated with the Empire, the more important the official, the more important you had to make yourself look to them to get anywhere on words alone.

"I am Grimnir Torn-Skull, Arch-Mage of Winterhold," he said, putting an imperious tone into his voice. "General Tullius has informed me that a threat has been made against the life of Emperor Titus Mede II."

"I am well aware of this, Arch-Mage," responded the commander with equal bluster. "Has Tullius no faith in his own Legion?"

"The Emperor is no ordinary man, Commander, and neither is his assassin," Grimnir replied. "If you want your charge to live, then you will give us leave to guard him."

Maro's eyes narrowed for a moment, as if sizing up the four mages, before he finally appeared to give way. " … Very well," he grunted. "You may enter—but you _will_ be discreet. The Emperor will be dining soon, and the last thing I would wish is for the bungling of _amateurs_ to ruin his meal."

Ignoring a snort from Brelyna, he signaled to a pair of guards nearby, who snapped to attention and fell in step with the commander as he marched away from the castle grounds.

* * *

Brelyna cast a withering look at Maro's retreating back. "'The _bungling of amateurs_,'" she fumed. "I have half a mind to teach that pompous fool a thing or two about House Telvanni!"

Onmund laid a hand on her shoulder. "Never mind him," he soothed. "So, what's our plan?" he said to Grimnir.

The Arch-Mage surveyed the thick walls. "Small castle," he said. "M'Alga won't have much of a chance to hide in here. Brelyna, can one scrye cover the whole of this building?"

"Yes, it can!" the Dunmer said, with a grim half-smile.

"Good." Grimnir hauled open the door and bade them inside. As it closed with a _bang_ behind them, Grimnir caught a glimpse of an ornately carved throne, flanked by iron braziers and surrounded by flowing white banners and enormous crimson flags, decorated in the dragon-diamond symbol of the Empire. But he paid the throne room little heed; he had a plan to set in motion.

Brelyna's eyes were already glowing with scrying magic. "Two people in the kitchens," she murmured, her gaze briefly flicking to a passageway off to their left. "Whatever they're cooking looks about finished. Then, there's … another four upstairs. One of them must be the Emperor. I don't know who the other three might be. Probably nobles, merchants, people like that."

"Then that's where we'll head," said Grimnir. "We won't enter the room—don't want to attract too much attention to ourselves. We'll keep our distance from there"—he pointed out a room upstairs and to their right—"and if things go bad, we'll be in prime position to catch M'Alga before he shows his ugly face.

"J'zargo, stay on this floor. Watch for anything suspicious. Brelyna, keep your scrye going for as long as you can. I want constant security on this place. Onmund, if M'Alga's in hiding, we'll force him out by—"

"Excuse us, please."

Grimnir jumped, his plan momentarily forgotten: the two cooks had emerged from the kitchen, and were now walking their way towards the mages. One of them—an Imperial so tan that Grimnir first assumed her to be a Redguard—was carrying a large pot of stew, while a smaller maiden followed closely behind her.

"What is this J'zargo smells?" The Khajiit was sniffing greedily at the aroma of the stew—which Grimnir, plan be damned, had to admit smelled very good.

"_This_ is the _Potage le Magnifique_," said the cook, proudly sweeping her free arm over the pot she carried, "prepared as only the Gourmet can."

Brelyna raised an eyebrow. "The … Gourmet?"

"You'd better believe it!" said the Imperial, jerking her head back at the woman behind her. "This woman right here is the personal chef of Titus Mede II—the most _famous_ chef in Tamriel: the Gourmet!"

The woman in question did not acknowledge this, or make any other introduction to the mages. She was quite young, now that Grimnir came to look at her—though that could simply be a matter of size; the woman was either so small, or her chef's hat so large, that the garment almost completely hid her eyes from view.

" … regular prodigy, she is," the cook continued to rave. "Trained in Breton cuisine since she was a child … don't tell me you've never heard of her cookbook! Best-seller for the last decade!"

"So this one can smell," J'zargo commented offhandedly.

Onmund, however, looked as if something was bothering him. "Why are we only hearing about this now?"

The Imperial scoffed, as if the answer was as simple as adding one to one. "Well, since the Emperor hardly leaves the Imperial City, _she_ never leaves his kitchen!" she exclaimed. "You should consider yourselves lucky—I can count the number of people who've actually _seen_ the Gourmet's face on one hand, present company included. Now if you'll excuse me," she said, a faint note of irritation beginning to show, "the two of us have a dish to serve."

And without saying another word, the two women strode away from them and up the stairs, leaving behind four mages exchanging darkly significant looks.

J'zargo had a grim look on his face. "Khajiit smells something, yes he does—and it is not the food," he growled.

Brelyna looked just as disconcerted as he did. "Something's not right here," she murmured to Grimnir. "We'd better tail them—we'll head to that room you pointed out, and keep cover there until the time comes. I can still keep my scrye up for a few minutes more before I need to take a potion. Don't worry—if M'Alga even comes near this place, I promise you that I'll be the first to find out."

Feeling somewhat more reassured by her words, Grimnir had to agree. But just like Brelyna, he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss here, and he couldn't yet put his finger on what that could be.

They took position inside the room directly across from the staircase—a bedroom, Grimnir noted apropos of nothing as he saw the immense bed in the space, larger than even Savos' bed in the College. They were close enough to hear snippets of conversation from the dining room at the other end of the hall.

"But aren't you the least bit nervous?" Grimnir heard a woman's voice say. "After everything that's happened?"

"You mean the wedding? My cousin's apparent murder?" asked a second voice, and the Arch-Mage blanched as he realized just whom that voice could possibly belong to. "An unfortunate misunderstanding, no more. Cold mead, hot tempers—these things happen."

"Quite," said a third voice. "Yet that recent business with the young officer—Maro, was it? The son of your commander, plotting your assassination!"

"Mm, yes, an unfortunate turn of events, that," said the Emperor of Tamriel, "but an isolated incident. And I have been assured that the fault was with the man's son alone. Truth is, we are in no danger whatsoever. Killing an Emperor can be useful, but _befriending_ one? Now _that's_ beneficial—as I'm sure you'd all agree."

There was a general round of laughter at this statement.

"Here we are," Grimnir heard the Redguard cook murmur. Even from this distance, he could tell she was trembling from head to foot. "Gods, I'm nervous! We'll go in in just a moment. Please, I'll serve him, and you just stand there and … I don't know, be amazing!"

The two cooks disappeared down the doorway. The Gourmet stopped behind her suddenly, and for a moment Grimnir wondered if she was merely being polite, to let the other cook in first.

Then the Gourmet turned around to stare at the hallway behind her, and in a dark corner of his mind, Grimnir instantly knew they had been discovered. But the rest of his mind could not be bothered to process this fact—he had just seen the Gourmet's face for the first time.

No. Not the first time.

_He would know those black eyes anywhere_.

Grimnir stood there, boots stuck to the floor as if rooted there, unable to believe what was happening. The pitch-dark eyes of the woman—horribly familiar, dreadfully cold—narrowed slightly, and her thin lips curled into a small, daring smirk.

_No …_

Then the woman turned away from them, as if the entire, silent exchange had never even happened, and close the door behind them with a _snap_.

"Wait." Though she sounded miles away at this point, Grimnir heard the first traces of understanding creep into Brelyna's whispered words. "That face … "

_No_, Grimnir heard his own murmuring voice echoing in his ears. He could not believe it—he could not! But the longer he stood there, the more aware he was of what was happening: in just a few moments, his plan had failed.

_Everything had gone wrong_.

"No … no, no," he repeated, over and over again. Grimnir no longer knew if he was actually speaking the words out loud anymore; his body had gone numb from toes to lips, and he felt himself threatening to unbalance on his own shaky feet.

Because even as the Arch-Mage watched his plans unravel before his eyes, even as he knew death itself was bearing down upon the most politically powerful man in all of Tamriel, another piece of the puzzle was beginning to click together in his mind.

Somehow, he—_they_—had known. Had the Black Worm planned for this from the very beginning, he wondered—perhaps even orchestrated the events that had led to this point—and brought the Emperor here, to this exact spot in Solitude? Had they been aware of how high the security, inside the city and out, would be bolstered to prepare for the Emperor's arrival—drawing all the attention away from the war raging across the province—

The septim finally dropped.

"Damn it," Grimnir mumbled—unable to speak louder in his raw shock. "Damn it all, I've been a _fool!_"

He knew now what was going on. But to stop it from happening, he knew he had to act _now_. Even if that meant—

And suddenly—as if his body had begun to act of its own accord—Grimnir felt himself sprinting downstairs towards J'zargo, towards the door to the courtyard.

"Where are you going?!" the Khajiit hissed.

"I made a mistake," Grimnir said hoarsely, his hand upon the door. "_M'Alga's not after the Emperor!_"

All three mages gawked at him, J'zargo's neck swiveling fiercely from one door to the other in utter confusion. Brelyna could only stammer. "W-what about—?"

"Never mind them," grunted Grimnir impatiently as he bolted out into the courtyard. "We have to move—_now!_"

* * *

Elsewhere, M'Alga finally felt his claws scrape against smooth rock.

He did not know how long he had been climbing for. So absorbed had he been in the task that he hadn't even bothered to tell when the sun had set, and risen once again. All he had seen—and cared about—was rock, slightly darker rock, and the rocks immediately above him.

Every inch of the monster's scaly skin was wet with perspiration, streaking the needle-like spines on his forearms, streamlining them into menacing, blade-like shapes that glinted in the noontide sun. Every fiber of his bulging muscles screamed for a respite, but the importance of M'Alga's task could not be denied him. There would be time to rest later—it would have been reckless to abandon his concentration at such an important time.

But at long last, here he was. M'Alga felt the salty breeze invade his nostrils as he took in a deep breath. He flexed his muscles, partly to ease the pain that tore through the flesh like a thousand tiny blades, partly to admire the construction that had gone into creating this body.

M'Alga knew that to think that he had accomplished the one specific task he had been bred for was folly. He knew this was only the beginning—he knew he and others like him could be capable of so much more. But deep inside, he knew that whatever his ultimate fate, he knew he would stand out among the rest of his kind—if any ever dared to exist in this world. M'Alga was the first—perhaps even the last, the only one. But he would still be the greatest.

He praised his master for preparing this vessel—not his _masters_; to think he served the inferior sorcerers of the Black Worm was the most extreme folly imaginable. No—though M'Alga deified the Worm God, he would never become a slave to it; he was far more than a simple puppet at a necromancer's disposal. M'Alga had chosen to place his devotion in the hands of something else entirely—and that something had put its trust in _him_ as well.

And for that reason, M'Alga _knew_ he had to succeed.

Bringing himself out of the depths of his mind, the abomination slowly moved toward the smooth stone he'd encountered before—a simple wall. No less harder to climb, but M'Alga knew what lay beyond this one wall.

High above him, he could see a window—just big enough, he thought, to allow him to squeeze through. His elven eyes narrowed, and a nightmarish smirk twisted his reptilian face as he began to climb towards his goal …

* * *

**A/N: Hooray for cliffhangers! Muahaha.**

**(Man, this took way too long to finally flesh out. Interpersonal drama's still exhausting for me to write.)**

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! - K**


	8. VII

**A/N: I had to split this into two parts or else there'd just be too much going on, and the chapter might well have reached twenty thousand words because of it—that's too long, even for me.**

**But here it is—and I hope you enjoy! - K**

VII

Sybille Stentor was not having a very good day.

If truth was to be told, the Breton had seen it coming. Twenty years of service to the Jarl of Skyrim's capital city had left its resident court wizard in little doubt that bad days, if few and far between, were still to be expected.

But today had been the worst of them by far. When Sybille had learned of what was to be happening within the city several days previously, she had pled on _bended knee_—for the first time in her career, to her shame—to be absent from the proceedings until the funeral was concluded, and the Emperor had departed. Sybille knew that such an event would require security the likes of which Solitude's people had never seen. And each one of those twenty years of service told her that with heightened security, heightened complaints were never far behind.

Even then, she could imagine the lines of annoyed townspeople, complaining about oppressive guards and random searches of civilians and property. She had already acquired a reputation, she'd told Elisif, as a woman of short stature and shorter temper, and more than once there had been stories about her _proclivities_ in the dungeons of Castle Dour—stories that, she'd reminded the Jarl, _both_ of them had had to go out of their way to suppress. But Elisif had been adamant, telling her that Sybille's foreknowledge and advice was invaluable.

Sybille had been flattered, but it wasn't long before she found herself regretting her nocturnal nature, and wanting more than anything to just curl up and go to sleep, regardless of the time of day—because the past few days had been exactly what she'd feared they would be.

And today had been the worst of them.

Sybille Stentor was quite in favor of what the Empire had done in Skyrim—she was fully aware of the tenuous alliance they had made with the Aldmeri Dominion, and even more aware that regardless of how the civil war ended, that alliance was likely to shatter. And when it did, she fervently hoped the Empire was ready for it. She had faith in them, that they would be able to unite and take the Dominion to task for the atrocities they had committed.

But there were times—oh, yes, there were times—when that faith in the Empire would be shaken severely.

Out of the hundred or so petitioners today, over half of them had lodged complaints about the Penitus Oculatus agents that had essentially made themselves at home in Solitude over the past few days. Sorex Vinius at the Winking Skeever had choked out between sobs that their investigation into his father's death was putting a strain on not only his new business, but also his relationship with what little family he had left. Headmaster Viarmo of the Bards' College, on the other hand, had appeared no less than ten times before Jarl Elisif, each time complaining that hourly drills and patrols were disrupting his classes and lectures.

And Evette San—Sybille shuddered. Poor Evette had had to deal with a particularly brash agent at her market stall today who seemed to be of the opinion that a bottle of her spiced wine was, in fact, a cleverly concealed poison. Only when Evette had broken said bottle over the agent's forehead in a fit of fury had he been convinced. Unfortunately, he'd also thrown her in the dungeon for assaulting an Imperial officer. It had taken Sybille two hours' worth of shouting herself hoarse at the man before he'd finally cowed, and let Evette go with a warning.

All in all, the wizard had never been happier to see the darkening skies in the windows above the great hall of the Blue Palace. Court would soon be closed, she knew, and the moment the signal was given, she would go to her room, bolt the door and seal it with a rune, and proceed to sleep until tomorrow night—Elisif's orders be damned.

For now, though, the court had one more petitioner to listen to—one Varnius Junius, out of Dragon Bridge. Fortunately, he hadn't come to complain about the heightened security, but he talked so animatedly that it didn't really matter to Sybille; it wasn't long before his hysterical voice started to try her patience. She tried to tune him out, but to no avail.

" … I swear to you, unnatural magics are coming from Wolfskull Cave!" Varnius was saying, waving his hands to and fro like a Khajiit with the shakes. "Strange noises, strange lights … we need someone to investigate!"

"We will send a legion to scour the cave and secure the town," said Elisif firmly. Sybille had to admire her Lady's resolve—ten hours of court, and her voice had not wavered an inch at all, nor had she betrayed a single fidget on her throne. "I want it understood, Varnius, that Haafingar's people will _always_ be safe under my rule."

Varnius blinked. Evidently he'd not been expecting this to be so quickly resolved. "O-of course, my Jarl … thank you," he stammered.

Sybille, however, thought differently. Varnius had not been the first to appear about the cave before, and nothing had come of it then. "Your Eminence, this is likely superstitious nonsense," she said. "Dragon Bridge is already under Imperial control. Given the current climate, sending any more troops there would spread our forces too thin."

To Sybille's left, Elisif's steward, Falk Firebeard, cleared his throat. "Then perhaps a more … _tempered_ reaction might be called for? There is a shrine to Meridia opposite this cave. I have heard that on certain days, a man can be found making his devotions there—a former Legionnaire, I'm led to believe. Maybe he could investigate this cave in lieu of a few soldiers?"

Elisif considered this, humming to herself. Finally, she turned to the court wizard. "Sybille, what do your scrying spells say?"

Sybille huffed—there was no use in wasting any magic on a scrye that would turn up nothing. It would be the same as ever. "There is nothing in the area, Your Eminence," she said, a flash of irritation showing in her voice.

Elisif, however, did not back down. "Check again," she said, leveling her icy blue eyes at the Breton. "I wish to put the fears of a _concerned citizen_ to rest." She nodded meaningfully at Varnius.

Sybille knew it was pointless to argue, and so she complied. She quickly prepared a scrying spell, raising a hand over her left eye to block out the sudden ray of sunlight, allowing herself to focus on the cave that so frightened Varnius, west and south of the city—

_Wait_.

Sybille's hand hovered there, and she knew she must look very foolish indeed right now; her jaw was hanging slack as an unpleasant realization washed over her. The sun set in the _west _—and what was more, was already nearly below the horizon—yet the light in her eyes was coming from the _south_, as brightly as if at its zenith.

And adding further to it, that light had not shone in her face _until_ Sybille had cast her scrye. The timing was too perfect to be coincidental. No—Sybille was certain her scrye had picked up something outside Solitude. Something big—something with immense magickal power—but the size of it was impossible! It would have to be close by—literally _right outside the window_, even—to have even the slightest _chance_ of plausibility—

And then the court wizard understood what was _really_ going on—what was about to happen right under her nose. The _how_ and the _why_ still eluded her, but those were questions to be answered later. They were not important right now—not even close to it.

Sybille Stentor knew she had _seconds_ before everyone in this room was dead—she needed to act _now_—

Her body and the blob of light moved at almost the same time. Almost without her bidding, the Breton's hand was already cascading with a large amount of frost magic, and aiming right for the window. At the exact moment that her hand hurled the ice spear—as if of its own accord—she leapt into action.

"Falk!" she screeched. "Behind you!"

Falk only had time to glance in her direction—and then all hell broke loose.

The next few moments seemed to slow down to a crawl for Sybille; the window just a few paces behind Falk shattered into a thousand pieces, pulverized by a gourd-sized fist like it was nothing more than parchment. An instant later, Sybille's ice spear had found its mark in the wrist of the monstrous hand, and a deafening bellow sounded in the room—a roar of bestial rage that sent tremors through even Sybille.

And then the source of the bellow hurtled into the room with the speed of a shadow—and everyone in the palace gasped at what Sybille first thought was the biggest, broadest, meanest-looking Argonian she'd ever seen in her life. Again, Sybille felt her body react almost automatically; in twenty years of service to the Jarl of Solitude, the court wizard knew a threat to the city when she saw one, and her mind had long since developed a pattern of response to such threats.

By the time that pattern of response took root in her mind, however, the monster was already attacking the two guards at the stairs. To Sybille's amazement, it was capable of magic as well—its undamaged hand was sparking with lightning magic, and a number of bolts now flew from those jagged claws, flash-burning the soldiers' bodies in moments.

Now fully aware of the danger the court was in, Sybille threw herself between Elisif and the brute, narrowly missing her own ice spear being hurled back at her in the process, which shattered against the wall and left shards in Elisif's chair. A quickly cast ward from the Breton saved any shards from causing harm to the Jarl.

Pandemonium reigned. Varnius had disappeared amidst the chaos; Sybille, in the corner of her mind, sensed a number of life forces fleeing the castle—no doubt the rest of the courtesans and petitioners had left the building with him. Falk, who had been less than a pace from the monster when it had burst in, had somehow managed to scramble on all fours, crablike, away from the intruder and towards Bryling, who had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

Erikur was not so lucky. He had been just as close as Falk to the broken window, but had had the misfortune of sitting down in his usual seat where Falk had been standing up, and was therefore less alert—if only slightly—than the steward. But the difference in preparedness was still costly; Erikur had only just clambered to his feet before five heavy claws made chaff of his entrails in one single swipe.

It was at this point, as the thane lay facedown in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood and viscera, that everyone else present recovered from their shock, and sprang into action. Bolgeir's sword was drawn in the time it took to draw breath, and the housecarl—in true Nordic fashion—charged straight for the beast with reckless abandon. "Get back, monster!"

To his credit, Sybille thought in the midst of the carnage, Bolgeir had the element of surprise: the monster, upon hearing his battle cry, appeared to draw back for an instant, as if not expecting to see anyone charge for something so fearsome. Bolgeir might have stopped his assault, however, if he had noticed two things: first, the way the monster's feet had shifted. Sybille had seen it in humans and creatures alike; it was not a sign of confusion—or, indeed, of weakness. It was an attack stance.

And secondly, the fact that the monster's other hand, drawn to its scaly breast, had subtly curled into a fist.

But Bolgeir, eyes shining with the promise of battle, charged forward all the same with a war cry—and with frightening speed, the monster swung round, aiming its massive tail right for the housecarl. Even Sybille, no stranger to violence in her time, winced as the spikes of the tail hit Bolgeir right in his unprotected skull. The force of the impact sent blood, brain matter, and shards of bone spraying in every direction.

"Guards!" Elisif was screaming at the top of her lungs, frantically issuing orders even as her court was being decimated. "Get as many people as you can to safety! Evacuate the palace!"

The remaining soldiers dispersed amidst the castle, but Sybille knew there was only one way out of the keep. And the monster seemed to know that; it had suddenly stopped in its assault, looking intently downstairs, and suddenly bounded from the railing—ignoring Falk completely as he hoisted an unconscious Bryling on his back—and landed on the floor below with a _thud_ on its heavy feet.

The guards for their part, reacted well to the sudden change in the abomination's focus; two of them had already whisked Falk and Bryling away to safety. One soldier, however, remained transfixed by the sight of the airborne creature, and by the time he found it in him to react, it was too late. In an instant, ten claws had seized him by the shoulders, and pierced through chainmail, flesh, and bone as the monster tore him limb from limb.

Suddenly, there was a splintering crack from far away; something had broken the oaken double doors of the castle. For a moment, Sybille wondered if it had been the monster's work.

And then—"_Jarl Elisif!_"

The voice, unfamiliar to Sybille, boomed so loudly that for a moment, all was quiet in the Blue Palace. Even the monster, though she could no longer see it from where she was, seemed to have paused in its attack.

The Breton suddenly felt a pain on her shoulder—Elisif was gripping it tightly, and looked white. "That's … "

Then, she heard a second unfamiliar voice—this one growling, inhuman. "_You._"

There was a silence. Then—

_"Fus … Ro DAH!"_

Nothing but those three words, and the deafening thunderclap that came with them, could have given Sybille the willpower to move. _The Dragonborn_, a corner of her mind thought, detached from the chaos around her.

_The Dragonborn had come_.

But before Sybille could wonder how or why he'd come at all, a loud _crunch_ of stone distracted her from her stunned state, and nearly sent the court wizard sprawling on the bloody floor. Jarl Elisif clung to her, and the two managed to remain standing through their combined efforts.

Two seconds later, the Dragonborn himself had appeared on the stairs, and made a beeline for the two women. Explosions and snaps of magickal energy rent the air below them. "Oh, thank the _gods_ you're alright," he gasped out to Elisif; it sounded to Sybille as if he'd ran miles to get here. "Are you hurt? Can you stand?"

Elisif nodded weakly, her eyes widened, her face still pale. Sybille thought she could recognize the early symptoms of traumatic shock—who could blame her? she thought—but before she could get a better look, the Dragonborn had taken them both by the hand and hurtled down the stairs with them.

Sybille saw three more mages—presumably from the College of Winterhold—waiting for them one floor below, hands burning with continual torrents of lightning that converged on a single point. The source of the magic was immediately explained. Moments later, the source of the crunch Sybille had heard earlier was solved as well; that point of convergence was the monster itself, squashed against the wall, caught head-on by the force of the Dragonborn's Shout.

The Breton was amazed that thing was still alive, never mind able to move after that attack. But the brute was obviously in great pain; it was writhing and roaring as its scaly skin blackened under the onslaught of magic. Chunks of flesh already littered the floor under it, and the stench of its spilled blood was too much for Sybille's heightened senses to bear.

Fortunately, the Dragonborn had handed her and Elisif over to one of the mages. "Come on, milady," Sybille heard a voice say, as if from far away—female, possibly elven.

The Dragonborn, meanwhile, moved to join in the assault, his own lightning echoing in the hall. "We have to get them out of here," Sybille heard him bellow, "before—!"

With a thunderous roar, and strength that Sybille would never have thought possible—the creature broke free from the onslaught of magic, and charged for the Dragonborn with the speed of a rampaging mammoth, its bloodied scales crackling with lightning.

Sybille's scream never left her mouth. At the exact moment the mage tightened her grip around the Breton's chest—squeezing the air out of her—the broad hand of the monster swiped out at the Dragonborn's head. There was a howl of pain, an indistinct shout, but the sights and sounds were too much for Sybille's senses; she could handle no more. Her eyes rolled back, darkness took over her vision, and she knew no more …

* * *

Grimnir nearly made it. But he knew "nearly" didn't mean a damned thing in close-range firefights like this. If it hadn't been for Brelyna, he would almost certainly have died then and there.

The moment the Arch-Mage had voiced his suspicions that M'Alga had never planned to attack the Emperor, but instead turned the city's own heightened security against it by going after Jarl Elisif—a major player in the civil war—, Brelyna had wasted no time in casting her strongest flesh spell on him, turning Grimnir, robes and all, a bright shade of teal green.

_"We don't know what we're going to find in there," _Brelyna had said to him as the quartet sprinted headlong for the Blue Palace,_ "so we need to be ready for anything. And the College made themselves quite clear: your survival is much more important than ours."_

_"But how would M'Alga have gotten inside the Blue Palace—without anyone noticing?" _Onmund had asked._ "Even with the Emperor here, the Jarl would still have the whole place under guard! How could he get in?!"_

_"The same way he left the Pit." _J'zargo's reply had been terse and growling, teeth clenched in fury and fatigue._ "Solitude sits on a natural arch," _he'd explained further,_ "and at the far end lies its keep. We have already seen M'Alga climb the shaft of a Dwemer lift as a Dagi would scale the trees of Tenmar Forest. For the kind of strength M'Alga possesses, reaching the summit of that arch—and the Blue Palace with it—would be child's play."_

Even before they'd entered the castle, and seen M'Alga staring right back at them as if he'd been expecting them—and judging by the monster's reaction, that appeared to have been the case—Grimnir was determined not to let him out of his sight this time. The moment they'd locked eyes with him, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo had opened fire, spraying an entire thunderstorm's worth of lightning at M'Alga while Grimnir assessed the situation.

It was bad; there had clearly been casualties, and bloodstains were all over the place—even the ceiling, right above where Grimnir assumed had been the throne room. Feeling his teeth clench, he'd taken took the stairs three at a time, hoping against hope that his worst fears had not come to pass—

Several bodies were strewn about the area by the time he crested the stairs—but Grimnir only had eyes for the two women in front of him. The court wizard, whose name he did not know, had been shielding Elisif with her own body; the Jarl looked shaken, but alive, and Grimnir felt relief flood his insides.

"Oh, thank the gods you're all right," he'd managed to gasp out. "Are you hurt? Can you stand?" Grimnir had known that he had to get the Jarl to safety—before M'Alga had a chance to gain the upper hand—but if Elisif was injured, he would have to be careful not to make her plight worse. But his concern, fortunately, was unfounded; Elisif had nodded, and Grimnir—not waiting for a reply—took her and the court wizard by the hand, and hauled them away from the scene with such strength that Grimnir was sure their boots had lost contact with the floor.

The moment he'd descended the stairs, he'd handed them to Brelyna, telling her to make haste for Castle Dour, where he was certain General Tullius—possibly Commander Maro as well—would be waiting for her.

And then, quite suddenly, everything went wrong.

Up until that point, it seemed as if the mages had won; M'Alga was fighting a losing battle, and even his considerable regenerative powers looked unable to keep up with three-against-one odds. But for a moment, when Brelyna had turned away to take Jarl Elisif to safety, the barrage of lightning had abated somewhat—and before Grimnir had loosed more than a few bolts, M'Alga had already seized his momentary advantage.

The Arch-Mage's eyes were already half-blind from the sheer amount of electricity being directed at M'Alga, so he had not seen the monster cast the spell. And there was so _much_ lightning being cast that, again, Grimnir neglected to consider the possibility that some of that lightning might actually be _M'Alga's_ until it was too late.

As a result, he had underestimated the abomination once again. But by the time Grimnir had figured this out, the lightning cloak had already spread over M'Alga's scaly skin. Ignoring the hundred or more flesh wounds in his blackened body, M'Alga lunged at Grimnir with a bearlike growl, fist raised—and Grimnir moved a second too late.

He roared in pain as one of M'Alga's claws, crackling with lightning from the cloak, grazed the already scarred left side of his face. It would have been far more than that—perhaps even fatal, if he'd been exceptionally unlucky—but Brelyna's flesh spell had stopped the worst of the blow.

"Grimnir!"

The Arch-Mage toppled to the floor. Immediately, Grimnir felt a trickling sensation somewhere around his ear, and he felt nauseous all of a sudden. Idly, he wondered if M'Alga's attack had done something to his hearing, but he paid it no further mind; J'zargo's shout had made him forget about his injuries.

With some effort, he stumbled back up to his feet, surveying the wrecked entrance hall of the keep; M'Alga was nowhere to be seen. A retreating shadow behind the mages told Grimnir all he needed to know.

He waved off the Khajiit as he extended a paw. "Don't worry about me—Brelyna's spell stopped the worst of it!" he shouted. "Let's go! After him!"

No one needed telling twice. The other mages fell in line behind Grimnir as he burst from the palace and out into Solitude.

A crowd had gathered, mostly survivors of the attack, and Grimnir saw M'Alga half sprinting, half limping, and trailing blood all the while. He idly wondered why there were no additional casualties—had M'Alga simply failed to see them, or was he ignoring them completely so as to make good his escape? He forced the thought to the back of his mind; it would bear thinking about later.

For now, he and the others were keeping in step with M'Alga as they sprinted behind him. Onmund and J'zargo, the fittest of the lot, were actually beginning to outstrip the wounded Grimnir—even possibly gaining a few feet on M'Alga! His heart rose—at this pace, the mages could catch up with him before he reached the city gate!

"Stop him! Stop him!" Brelyna yelled at stunned guards and passersby, firing lightning bolts hither and thither in the air for effect; it was too risky to target M'Alga with magic with how quickly and randomly he was moving.

Suddenly, the monster took a sharp turn right, towards a large building that Grimnir realized was the Bards' College. M'Alga hurtled through a stone pavilion, towards an amphitheater a short distance beyond—

—and beyond that, Grimnir suddenly realized with a sinking feeling, was nothing but the Sea of Ghosts.

_No!_

Onmund had seen it too, and his voice rose in horror as he saw the speed M'Alga was still traveling at, the wide-open space beyond the city limits—and the wall between them, nothing more than a glorified railing from which to view the ocean, the only thing that separated M'Alga from the outside world—and put two and two together.

"He's going to—!"

And before anyone could think to bring a bolt to bear on him, M'Alga—crippling wounds be damned—had jumped over the railing in a leap that would have shamed a saber cat, and disappeared over the edge.

Precious seconds too late, the four mages hurried up to the railing, gazing at M'Alga's rapidly shrinking form as it plummeted towards the water's surface. There was a tiny dot of white foam as the monster splashed down.

The _clink-clink-clank_ of jangling chain-mail and steel boots against stone soon appeared behind them, and Grimnir turned to see a half-dozen guards run up to their position, swords gleaming and bows strung.

The lead soldier eyed the rapidly fading ripples far below. "It's two, three hundred feet to the delta," he remarked grimly. "You hit the water, you're a dead man."

"Not this one," Grimnir informed him, breathing heavily. "He was mixed-race—Argonian, Orc, Redguard, among others. Trust me, he survived … and he escaped. _Damn it!_"

He aimed a kick at the unyielding stone railing in his fury—which achieved very little indeed, other than a new pain to deal with in his left foot.

Another guard, meanwhile was already barking orders to the rest of his command. "Send out patrols! Search the docks below! Search _everywhere!_"

As they rushed off to canvass the city, the first guard turned to the mages. "What happened in there?" he demanded, more out of concern than anger. "Is Jarl Elisif in danger?"

"Not anymore."

They all looked across the pavilion at the sound of the familiar voice. Elisif herself was crossing the stone courtyard towards them. Her steps were unsteady, and her face was still somewhat pale—but there was a fire in her eyes so reminiscent of Sorli the Builder that Grimnir instantly knew that questioning the Jarl's health was meaningless.

"Sybille's going to need a healer," Elisif said to them as she reached the amphitheater, "and I can see to finding one myself, thank you—but she'll survive. Though I wish I could say the same for my court." Her voice was filled with bitter fury. "Solitude will _not_ stand for this treachery—mark my words."

Then she gasped. "Dragonborn—your ear!"

Grimnir was about to make it clear to the Jarl that he no longer wished to be called Dragonborn by an authority figure when he suddenly remembered the pain he'd felt in the palace—M'Alga's lightning-enhanced fist, and the searing agony that had come with it. Gingerly, he touched the wound—and blanched.

Where there was supposed to be an ear, there was now only a long slash, caked with blood … and a charred stump that burned like a hot coal to the touch. The trickling feeling from before—the nausea, the unsteady footing—was immediately explained.

_My ear's gone_, he thought, shocked beyond belief.

_I just lost an ear._

But before he or anyone else could process this unwelcome news any further: "There you are!"

Grimnir instantly turned once more towards the pavilion—he knew that voice all too well. General Tullius was storming through the courtyard, bearing right for the Arch-Mage. Commander Maro of the Penitus Oculatus marched only a few steps behind him. Both men looked livid with fury—particularly the General.

"What the _hell_ is the meaning of this, Arch-Mage!" he roared, spittle flying in Grimnir's face. "Because of you, the Emperor is _dead!_"

A dead calm fell as the General's words sank in—the mages had completely forgotten. Grimnir's mind was instantly far away from the Bards' College, back inside the hallway where he had heard the words of the Emperor—oblivious to the fact that death lurked on the other side of his dining-room door—

"Shor have mercy … " Onmund swore. What little color had returned to Elisif's face had left it once again.

"No … " whispered Brelyna. J'zargo was slack-jawed, unable to say a word.

But Commander Maro, to Grimnir's utter amazement, looked unruffled by the revelation, though still understandably angry. "General, that's … not completely true," he said. "The Penitus Oculatus anticipated that the Emperor might be targeted even before we discovered the so-called 'evidence' left by my son. We had him switched with a double, in an effort to draw out our assassin."

Grimnir let loose a _whoosh_ of breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in his lungs. Everyone else, including Elisif, traded looks of relief. "Stendarr be praised," said Tullius, mopping his brow with the sleeve of his cuirass.

But for Grimnir, the reprieve was short-lived, and he approached Commander Maro with a feeling in his stomach that reminded him uncomfortably of the inferno that had erupted in his fight with Bahlokmaar.

"_Our_ assassin wasn't _your_ assassin," Grimnir said through clenched teeth, doing his damnedest to keep himself under control. "We were not aware of this information, _Commander_."

If Maro was at all fazed by Grimnir's hostile tone, he didn't show it. "For obvious reasons, Arch-Mage," he said coolly, "I could not divulge the details of our plan—or of our perpetrator. I can assure you, however, that all parties responsible for this dastardly act are being put to the sword as we speak. But that is not the issue here."

_"You're damned right it isn't the issue!"_ Grimnir said hotly. He would have spoken his mind further on the matter had General Tullius not suddenly interrupted his train of thought.

"The Lady Elisif is unharmed," he said to Grimnir. His gray eyes had lost their luster, he looked like an old man who'd come within a hairsbreadth of bad news. "And for that—if for nothing else—you have my thanks."

And then, just as suddenly, the iron was back in his gaze, and his tone was just as severe and military as it had been before. "That being said," he barked, scant inches from the scars on Grimnir's face, "you disobeyed a direct order and left an innocent man to die! You were lucky he was just a _decoy!_"

It was Brelyna's turn to get angry. "You were lucky he saw through that monster's plan!" she protested. "If he hadn't, you might be planning Elisif's funeral right now!"

Elisif gave a little cough that seemed to politely suggest that Brelyna kindly leave her out of this discussion, but the Dunmer was too furious to notice—or to care.

Commander Maro stepped forward, interposing himself between Brelyna and the general. "You may not consider yourselves Legionnaires, but for the purpose of this assignment, you were considered subject to our command. Abandoning your posts in such a manner, and at such a time, is tantamount to insubordination and desertion."

Grimnir felt a cold, swooping feeling in his stomach, as if he'd missed a step going down a flight of stairs. _Insubordination? Desertion?_

"If the Emperor had truly been slain today," Maro went on, "I'd have you clapped in irons here and now—and you can bet your life that I'd be petitioning the Elder Council to have you all executed for treason!"

"The College of Winterhold is an independent body!" shouted Brelyna, who was already looking angrier than she had at any point during her altercation with Jarl Korir. "We are not subject to the will of the Empire! We don't answer to _anyone_," she added coldly.

"Times change," Maro said to her, his voice colder still. "The matter is settled, Arch-Mage," he said, turning to Grimnir, "and Tullius agrees with me. You and your College are no longer welcome in Solitude."

Even before the revelation, that sinking feeling had returned to Grimnir's chest, and Commander Maro's declaration had made it ten times worse. And that wasn't the hardest part of it, either, he knew.

Once again, he had failed—but this time, it wasn't just himself, or just the College … he'd failed all of Skyrim, perhaps even Tamriel. Elisif had survived, but that was little comfort to him now; M'Alga had escaped once more—and Grimnir knew deep inside him that this expulsion was perfectly justified.

As everyone stood there, slack-jawed, Maro turned to leave. "Bungling of amateurs," he was heard to mutter. "That's exactly what caused all—"

Brelyna was smart enough to know when she was being taunted, Grimnir knew—but that didn't stop her from finally exploding like a badly drawn rune.

"_That's it!_" she shrieked, hands brimming with elemental magic. "I have _had_ it!"

"Let it go, Brelyna!" Grimnir bellowed, throwing out an arm before the Dunmer could think of frying either Maro or Tullius into a crisp. He knew he had to take a stand for this—killing either of the two men would not help his case in the slightest.

"Maro is right," he sighed. "I am to blame here—I made a judgment call, and I knew the sacrifice I'd have to make." He turned his attention to the commander of the Penitus Oculatus, forcing his expression into something that he hoped looked contrite. "As the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, I take full responsibility for this regrettable incident. You need not take your anger out on my companions—or my College."

Commander Maro's frown did not waver one bit. "Noted for future reference," he said angrily. "Now get out of this city—and out of my sight."

Elisif, perhaps sensing the hostility in his words, stepped forward. "Thank you, General—I'll escort them to the gates myself," she said, defusing the tension in the air with a curt nod and a quick gesture to the mages.

The Jarl left the courtyard then, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the mountainside that formed Solitude's western border. Not wanting to remain behind with a very angry Imperial agent, Grimnir and the others followed her lead.

* * *

"I'm sorry about Commander Maro," Elisif said once they were out of earshot of both him and General Tullius. "Gaius' death did not sit well with him. He's determined to avenge him, restore his good name."

"Do you think he will?" Brelyna asked, rather more forcefully than she'd meant to—she was evidently still very angry at Maro for his attitude towards the mages.

"He has an obligation to," said Elisif. "He's the leader of the Emperor's personal guard. These last few days might as well be a bucket of dung on his uniform," she added dourly.

They did not speak further until they reached the southern gate of the city.

"What about you, milady?" Grimnir finally spoke up. "Do you think you can recover from this? I'd be shaken, too, if it were me." That wasn't entirely true, the Arch-Mage said to himself; he'd been the target of enough assassinations in the past—most of them on the part of the Thalmor's death squads—that even when he was safe and sound in Winterhold, he still kept himself on the lookout for trouble. Ancano's final actions had given him no reason to lower his guard in the foreseeable future.

Elisif seemed to share the same opinion. "This isn't the first attempt on my life that I've survived," she told him, "and I highly doubt it will be the last. But Solitude will recover—and I for one can rest easier tonight.

"What about you?" she asked Grimnir. "What will you do now?"

Grimnir sighed. "The same as before—track down M'Alga before he kills another Jarl. And I think I know where to go next."

"Oh? Where would that be?"

If Grimnir was honest, he wasn't absolutely, positively sure about it either. But the beginnings of a hunch had started to form in his mind as soon as he'd discovered M'Alga's target had been the Lady Elisif from the beginning. He hadn't thought much about it in the time since, as M'Alga's escape was more important to him at the time. But now that that burden had been lifted from his shoulders, if only slightly, his mind was starting to think again.

And he was beginning to think he'd been wrong about M'Alga from the beginning. He wasn't concerned about Tamriel—or even the Empire. He was working on a wholly different canvas than that—a smaller canvas, yes, but no less important a one for it. The monster's attempt on Elisif's life was proof of that, surely!

"Think about it," he said to the Jarl. "First, M'Alga killed Jarl Idgrod. Then he tried to kill you. Now what connects you both?"

Elisif thought for a moment. "I don't really know," she muttered. The only thing I can think of is that we have the same interests at heart. Maybe Idgrod wasn't quite so devoted to it … but I know in her heart she supported what the Empire's done for our land … "

Grimnir said nothing, merely staring more intently into Elisif's eyes, waiting for the moment of truth to dawn—

And suddenly, Elisif started. "Wait a minute!" she gasped. "You don't mean—?"

Grimnir nodded. "We leave for Windhelm on the next carriage," he said to Onmund, J'zargo, and Brelyna. His voice sounded huskier now, much more determined to succeed in the light of his failures.

"Windhelm?" J'zargo looked uneasy—the inhabitants of the Stormcloaks' most fortified stronghold had little tolerance for anyone who wasn't of Nordic blood.

"Yes," said Grimnir, opening the gate that led out to Skyrim. "I think it's long past time I paid Jarl Ulfric another visit."

* * *

_Meanwhile_

M'Alga was furious. He did not let it show, of course—or, at any rate, his _master_ did not allow him to show it; such strong emotions would cloud his young heart and mind, and inevitably lead to his undoing.

But there was no denying that the setback he had suffered today was by no means temporary or insignificant; Elisif's death had been absolutely crucial to his plans. That the Dragonborn had intervened only made the setback all the more insulting; between him and the scryes of the undead masquerader, another infiltration into Solitude would be impossible now.

And now, as the moon rose over Haafingar, here M'Alga was—the most complex, most powerful creation ever engineered by any cult of the Black Worm, reduced to drifting like the flotsam towards a frozen spit of land in the Sea of Ghosts, just north of the city, while his multiple wounds healed. The process was painful, too, excruciatingly so: the lightning magic, while certainly not fatal, had been extremely damaging, with some wounds burning right through to the bone. M'Alga had lost a great deal of blood in the escape as well, and that was not so easily replenished. Even the shoal of slaughterfish he'd devoured en route hadn't offered the sustenance he desperately needed.

To top it all off, the salt in the air and the water stung the wounds endlessly, and it was all M'Alga could do to accept the pain, keep himself from roaring in agony and possibly betraying his position to the Solitude guards—or even the Penitus Oculatus. His reptilian lips were scarred from the amount of times he'd bitten them to the bone to ward off the screaming, and blood flowed from his palms on account of his jagged claws digging deep into the flesh.

Eventually, M'Alga had turned his mind to other matters besides the pain—and there had been one that stuck out the most to him, out of everything that had happened today.

_How had the Dragonborn known he would be there?_

The plan had worked perfectly—and the cult had had to do very little to make it happen. All that needed to be done was to sow the seeds of paranoia with the massacre at Morthal, then pair it with the tension of the ongoing civil war, the growing shadow being cast by the Dark Brotherhood, and most importantly, the Emperor's arrival in Skyrim. From there, the people of Solitude would be forced to bolster security, drawing all the attention away from Elisif and the Blue Palace, leaving his path to her clear. Even then, M'Alga could not resist a chuckle; after all, how often had the tightest measures of security been undone by something as simple as an open window?

He brooded, and brooded some more. Grimnir Torn-Skull could not possibly have known, he was sure. His impressment into the Emperor's security had been a pleasant surprise indeed for M'Alga; the further away he was from Elisif, the better. But then he'd come rushing towards the city keep, and he and his friends had found M'Alga there, almost as if they'd been expecting him to—

M'Alga frowned. A thought had just entered his mind, inconceivable to consider, but impossible to dispel: was it possible that he had been betrayed? Had someone revealed his scheme to the Dragonborn and his companions, ensuring they could intercept him before he could kill Elisif and her court from within? But that was not possible; the Worm Cult acted in absolute secrecy. And the only members of the cult that even knew of his existence—apart from his master and his closest servants—had been consumed to make his existence possible.

As the saying went, no loose ends.

M'Alga stood up from the shoreline then, and by chance noticed an odd flicker of light, far off to the west. A lesser mortal wouldn't have thought twice of it, or else thought it to be coming from the lighthouse not far from here. But this light was too high up for the lighthouse to be responsible—and much too big as well—but too small and dim to be a fire …

M'Alga suddenly felt his heart beating against his chest. Was that really where _he_ had been this whole time?

_No_, said a voice in his mind—too loud and too in control to be a part of his mind. _Not now. There are more important targets to be dispatched first_.

Yes, M'Alga thought as he stretched out his mammoth arms, inspecting the still-healing wounds as he waded back into the freezing water. That was why he had been created in the first place. And once he had fulfilled _that_ mission, he would return to wrap up matters here, no matter how he fared.

M'Alga grinned evilly as he dove deeper into the ocean. The thought of the Worm's success warmed him, sustained him, and shielded him from the renewed onslaught of pain that wracked his body like the lightning magic he'd endured today. He paid it no heed; it was no longer a setback to him.

The Worm would rise victorious because of his efforts here. He knew that his strength was leading his master one step closer to triumph—and he knew that he was getting stronger, strong enough that before long, moments like these, spent wallowing in pain while his body repaired itself, would be a thing of the past.

And if anyone or anything—the Dragonborn, M'Alga's unknown betrayer, or all the slaughterfish in the world—dared to stand against his quest for victory this time … then he would make sure they would all die by his hand.

* * *

_The Pale_

By the time anyone bothered to discuss Grimnir's hunch, dawn had broken as the four mages and their carriage rolled on through Skyrim at a fair trot. Fatigue from the hectic chain of events had left them all overwhelmed, and they had drifted into dreamless sleep for the first time in what felt like days.

"You can't possibly think Ulfric's behind all this!" yawned Brelyna as Dawnstar shrank in the distance behind them. "The Stormcloaks hate magic—let alone necromancy! They'd never be so desperate that they'd have to resort to the worst possible necromancers out there to win their war for them!"

"When did I say any of that?" Grimnir shot back, a little testy himself. Having to sleep on the slats of a carriage was not at all good for his back—or his head, for that matter; Brelyna had healed his head injury as much as she could, but once again, it appeared that Grimnir would have another souvenir of battle to bear for the remainder of his days. "I just think we need to get to Windhelm, and fast. Hopefully, we'll get there with time enough to get to Ulfric—and possibly find out his side in all of this. Personally, I hope I'm wrong."

"Wrong about what?" asked Onmund.

Grimnir sighed, idly picking at the bandage that Brelyna had wrapped around the burned stump of his ear. "I'm not going to discount the possibility that Ulfric's a suspect in all this," he said, "even though I think the odds of that are as close to zero as you can get."

He paused. He didn't want to tell them, not if there was the slightest chance he was wrong. But something stunk in this entire affair, Grimnir was sure, and keeping the thought to himself would only make it feel worse in his mind.

"No," he eventually said. "I think it's more likely that Ulfric is M'Alga's next target."

He'd expected a round of surprised gasps from his companions the moment he laid out his theory—and in this, Brelyna, Onmund and J'zargo did not disappoint.

Grimnir had _not_ expected, however, for the carriage to suddenly come to a screeching halt, and for everyone in the cart to tumble into a heap.

"What the devil are you on about?" hollered the driver just then. Wondering what exactly the mages had said or done to bring this about, Grimnir was able to extricate himself from the rest of his companions and crane his neck up at the Nord in front of them.

But the Nord wasn't looking at them—something was holding his attention directly in front of him—and he didn't sound happy about it at all. "Get out of the way," he bellowed, "or by Talos, I'll have you run over!"

Grimnir untangled himself from J'zargo's tail before he finally stood up. Almost immediately, he was aware of two things. First, the something that had been holding their driver's attention was in fact three of them: three figures, swathed in clothes that Grimnir had never seen before—brown robes, with yellow-gold boots, bronze gauntlets of interlocking scales and uneven length, and a roughly carved bone-white mask that hid the entire face from view. These masks were covered in a spider's web of cracks that eerily resembled two eyes, a crude nose, and possibly even a mouth.

The second thing that Grimnir noticed was that every one of these spider-webbed faces was staring _right at him_. He felt an uneasy sensation in the back of his mind: whoever these people were, they were bad news.

"You there!" barked the tallest of them. Grimnir caught the rough accent of a Dunmer. "Are you the one the call Dragonborn?"

That gave Grimnir pause. He'd never seen clothing quite like what these three elves possessed—the closest he had seen in his time were the dragon priests Nahkriin and Morokei, with their scaled mail and their tattered robes, but those had been dead for thousands of years.

Was that how they knew, then? Did these three elves have something to do with the Dragon Cults of old?

"Who wants to know?" Grimnir eventually asked, in an attempt to give himself time to think. Perhaps a few questions could be answered as well, so he could learn as much as he could from these unexpected characters.

"We'll be asking the questions around here," said a second figure coldly, also a Dunmer. "Now tell us! Are you the one they call Dragonborn?"

Grimnir's opinion of these dark elves was plummeting by the second. It just sounded as if they wanted to pick a fight with him. They were wasting time—every moment they stood here was another moment they weren't disembarking outside Windhelm. He would have to send them home empty-handed—though, he thought, not completely empty-handed.

"The Greybeards seem to think so," he said to them with a shrug. "I'd suggest you go to them. But I'd travel warm if I were you—and I'd also watch what you say to them _very carefully_." That was all he needed, he thought: a polite suggestion, followed by a not-so-veiled threat—Grimnir hoped fervently these people would be convinced that they were only wasting their time and energy bandying words with him.

But, yet again, the masked figures did not move. "Then it's too late," growled a third figure, another Dunmer, though female this time. "The lie has already taken root in the hearts of men."

"If that is the case," said the second elf, reaching inside his robes, "we will expose them to the falseness in their hearts—by tearing out yours, deceiver!"

In a flash, three curved daggers of yellowed steel were brandished, followed by elemental magic from each of the dark elves. His suspicions thus confirmed, Grimnir immediately tensed for battle, and noises of magic behind him told him that Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo were all ready to leap to his defense at a moment's notice.

"When Lord Miraak comes," growled the biggest elf, "all shall bear witness! None shall stand to oppose him!"

Grimnir paid little heed to the name—there would be time to think about it later. The Arch-Mage's patience had finally run out, and he had no more time to worry about another _distraction_ as the dark elves charged forward.

Within moments, the air was full of magic, bolts flying every which way. The leader of the Dunmer went down to J'zargo's fireballs almost immediately; the lightning spell he'd been building up at the time discharged at exactly the same moment, thrown off course by the Khajiit's attack—and right into the carriage driver, who was obliterated on the spot. The horse neighed in terror, and bounded off—cart and all—out of sight, and out of harm's way.

Grimnir had turned just in time to notice the luckless Nord disintegrate into ash, and knowing that the Dunmer had taken an innocent life had wiped all else from his mind but anger. Within moments, both his hands overflowed with electricity, and he used both hands to cast a particularly large bolt at the female masked elf, which hit her in the shoulder with such force that her arm was sheared off, the gaping wound cauterized just as quickly into a charred, foul-smelling scab. But the unfortunate elf had no time to take in the loos of her limb—never mind to scream in pain; Grimnir's next bolt burned right through her breast, searing her insides in seconds.

The third elf had conjured a flame atronach, and both were now engaged in a heated back-and-forth with Brelyna, who in spite of the number of magickal missiles being lobbed back and forth looked hardly winded at all.

"Definitely some kind of cultists," she commented to Grimnir as she sent off an ice storm at the two figures, freezing them solid before she'd even finished her sentence. "There's no other way to explain the way they were fighting."

An eerie silence descended over the road, almost as quickly as it had been dispelled. J'zargo gave the newly frozen Dunmer an experimental tap. The luckless elf toppled over, and shattered on the stones into a thousand glittering shards. The Khajiit was not so delicate with the atronach, sending it flying with a shove into a nearby bush, where it exploded into icy fragments—and then again into a blast of flame that singed the tip of J'zargo's tail.

"What do you mean?" Grimnir asked, while the Khajiit healed his smoking tail. "What would their fighting style have anything to do with them being cultists?"

"They knew who you were," said Brelyna, "knew you were the Dragonborn. And yet they still attacked you with nothing but a flame atronach and apprentice-level magic. In any other case, that'd be suicide. But they genuinely seemed to believe that they had it in them to kill you—whoever this Miraak person is, they must've had a lot of faith in him for that." She gave a snort that was most unlike her. "A lot of good it did them," she added with a scowl.

Onmund had been bending over one of the fallen Dunmer, and now leapt up to Grimnir with something clutched in his hand. "You'd better have a look at this," he said quietly. "I found it inside the leader's robes."

It was a worn piece of parchment. Grimnir could make out a rough scrawl, and quickly unfolded the faded scrap.

_Board the vessel _Northern Maiden_ docked at Raven Rock. Take it to Windhelm, then begin your search. Kill the False Dragonborn known as Grimnir Torn-Skull before he reaches Solstheim._

_Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased._

On any other day, Grimnir would have had a great deal of interest in the contents of this letter. _Solstheim … False Dragonborn … Miraak_—and then, there was the fact that these cultists apparently knew him by name. But here, now, it amounted to little more than a faint buzzing in his head. It could be dealt with later on.

There were more important matters to deal with—although, Grimnir noted as he pocketed the parchment, it would seem this _Northern Maiden_ ship was already at Windhelm. That set his mind to thinking—if his hunch was right, M'Alga would show up at Windhelm to attack Ulfric. If they hurried, they could still make it to the city before the monster; if they were lucky, they might even be able to finish what they'd started in Solitude, and kill him for good. From there, they could be free to board the Northern Maiden, sail to Solstheim, and proceed to investigate this Miraak on their own free time.

Grimnir knew they had at least a day's head start on M'Alga if he kept going by the water. And even if he didn't, there was still the mountainous terrain and the freezing northern coast. Neither would stop M'Alga—but they would certainly slow him down.

It wasn't much of a hope—but after the luck they'd had this past week, it was all they had, and Grimnir was more than willing to take it.

"Let's go," he said eventually, setting off on the road to Eastmarch. Onmund, J'zargo, and Brelyna followed close behind.

* * *

_Next chapter: The Arch-Mage goes to incredible lengths to seize victory in Windhelm, but it becomes clear that M'Alga's machinations have begun to take their toll on his body … and the Dragonborn's mind._


	9. VIII

VIII

_Red Road Pass_

The sun was at its zenith when the mages finally found the abandoned carthorse. It was grazing on a snow-covered bush as if a trio of fanatical Dunmer had not suddenly attacked it from out of the blue.

Grimnir mentally thanked the Divines for the stroke of good luck—even his feet, normally used to lengthy jogs over Skyrim's harsher terrain—were beginning to drag on the stones of the road. As it turned out, a giant had also set up camp further up ahead, on the opposite side of the road from the mages and the runaway steed. Had the horse strayed any further, they'd have to walk to Windhelm on foot, as their horse would be half-roasted on a giant's spit—and the mages' confrontation with M'Alga, therefore, would likely have ended before it even began.

"I don't suppose anyone knows their way around horses?" the Arch-Mage asked.

"I do," Onmund said, inclining his head. "My pa had an uncle in Bruma we'd visit when I was younger. He had about a half-dozen of them on his farm—taught me the basics for a few years before he passed on."

Brelyna eyed the carthorse warily. "Considering what we just put that horse through, I'd be surprised if he wants to take us anywhere right now," she commented.

"Just calm him down with an illusion spell," Grimnir told her, a little more brusquely than he'd intended to; the suddenness of the attack they'd just endured, combined with the multitude of unknowns and questions that had come with it, had set him on edge. Ordinarily, Grimnir would be very concerned with the fact that someone had ordered an attack on his life—no, he amended, the _Dragonborn's_ life—but he still had a duty to fulfill right now.

It could wait.

Brelyna, meanwhile, had noticed the bluntness of his words, and looked at Grimnir with her eyes slightly widened, as if the Arch-Mage had suddenly snapped at her. But the reaction was only momentary, and Brelyna gave a sign of affirmation as her hand moved to stroke the horse's muzzle, wrapped in pale-green light.

At once, something changed in the horse's stance, and it appeared to relax with a small little nicker. Onmund tentatively offered the steed an apple from his pack; there followed a few tense seconds before the horse accepted the offering. Onmund's relief was palpable as he clambered into the driver's seat of the carriage, while Grimnir and the others hurried into the back of the cart.

"Let's hurry to Windhelm, then," Grimnir said with just a bite of impatience—they'd lost a lot of time thanks to those masked dark elves, and they no longer had any guarantee of arriving before M'Alga did. The best the Arch-Mage could hope for at this moment was that the damage the monster had sustained in his escape from Solitude was enough to leave him incapacitated for a time.

But Grimnir had seen for himself the potency of M'Alga's regenerative powers, how they allowed him to recover from wounds that would be mortal to all others.

And even as Onmund spurred the horse into a full gallop that nearly unseated him, Brelyna, and J'zargo from their seats, deep inside, in a shadowed corner of his mind, Grimnir began to doubt whether they would make it in time.

* * *

_Southwest of Winterhold_

Aranea Ienith woke with a start.

The last priestess of Azura had been serving in her capacity long enough to know why—somehow, in this inhospitable weather, she'd dozed off in the middle of tending the shrine below the massive statue of the Daedra she served. This was not uncommon in and of itself; indeed, it was in these moments of unconsciousness that the Mother of Roses oftentimes chose to communicate her visions to her faithful worshipper.

But it was the vision itself that had left Aranea in this state.

It began as it always had: a fortress on the edge of water, constantly in danger of collapse, but as yet untouched by its presence. And within this fortress stood two elves: one, with the power to make the stars go out—to turn them black as night.

Aranea did not need a gift of foresight to know how close this "fortress" was to her shrine. Indeed, she was more than capable of going down there herself and investigating this further. For one thing, her devotion to Azura was absolute; she would never abandon this shrine unless the Lady herself instructed her to do so—a highly unlikely event in and of itself.

But more importantly, it was because the second elf in her vision was not her.

It was a Dunmer, that much could be ascertained. But from there, any identification was impossible; Aranea could not even be sure if the dark elf in question was male or female. The visions did not abate over time—by now, they were occurring on an almost nightly basis—and so the priestess had done her best to concentrate on the appearance of this phantom figure. But even this was a futile task; not only did the sex of the figure seem to fluctuate between male and female between visions, but lately it had seemed to shift within the same vision as well, sometimes even right before the mind's eye of Aranea.

So it had went for the past several weeks. Apart from the constant change in gender, there was no other deviation in Azura's vision.

Until now.

It had only been for a moment, but the face of the mysterious Dunmer had shifted in her dreams—not into a male, or a female, but into something else … something monstrous, powerful … and more vivid than any vision Aranea had ever experienced. She saw the face of a dragon—no, not a dragon, something less, but something _more_ as well—and then the monster had lunged.

In the brief moment afterwards—the moment before Aranea had catapulted awake with a gasp—a voice had echoed in her mind. A single word that held the captivating beauty of the first ray of dawn, and the last ray of twilight, that rang in her soul like the peal of a great bell.

_Hide_.

Aranea had only a few moments' worth of fumbling about before the dream came back to her in all its clarity, and she was instantly alert. That had been much more than a dream, she knew, and perhaps even much more than a vision to come in the future.

Something was coming—and Aranea had a feeling that unless she obeyed Azura's will, she was dead if she continued to stay here.

_There_, she felt a voice inside her say, and her eyes drifted towards the stone staircase that led up to her shrine—then past it, just behind and to the left of the steps. Instantly, Aranea knew what to do. She muttered a quick intercession to Azura, then ducked to the spot she had noticed—or had Azura shown it to her just then, she wondered vaguely?—and crouched down as low as her body could allow her.

From this point, Aranea now had a clear view of the path that ran at an angle to her Lady's shrine, but any passers-by on that path would not see her. Not that they'd be looking at her in the first place—so large and awe-inspiring was the statue of Azura that most pilgrims to the site didn't know it was being tended to until they had reached the final step. But Aranea was not about to take chances.

Time passed, and the priestess bit her lip as the cold began to seep into her prone body. Her knees were screaming in agony as they continued to press against the icy stones. But Aranea continued to lay there, heart racing, not daring to even breathe, her eyes roving over the landscape—

And then she saw it.

Aranea's eyes widened as a massive humanoid figure burst into view from off to her right. It looked human only in that it stood on two legs—everything else was simply _wrong_. The arms, legs, and naked torso of the thing were covered in bits of ice and snow—and more scars and muscles than she'd believed a body could possess. But it was the face of the creature that sent a flutter of fear into the priestess' heart; even from so far away, there was no mistaking the monstrous visage she had seen in her dream.

Then the figure was gone, as swiftly as it had arrived, racing at a full sprint due south. But it was a long time, regardless, before Aranea was able to drag herself up from the carved stone.

In her mind, she gave thanks to Azura for the warning, but other questions were on her mind now; for the first time in a long while, her devotion to the Daedra, while unwavering, had been supplanted by something unexplainable. And the unexplained, Aranea knew, tended to bring forth a multitude of questions. Many pilgrims to her shrine had come forth with questions of their own, and she had prayed to Azura on their behalf, that they would be granted answers.

Yet even as she felt the first of her questions form in her mind, the priestess felt a sudden emptiness within her, and instinctively she knew the answers would not come, nor would they ever. Aranea Ienith's part to play had passed.

And though the Dunmer would receive no further visions of the monster she had seen today, the seeds of doubt had already been sown in her mind, and it was amidst a sea of turbulent thoughts that Azura's last remaining priestess in Skyrim had returned to her duties, besieged by a sudden worry towards a future she had not predicted …

* * *

_Windhelm_

_Three hours later_

A snowstorm was brewing when the mages finally made it to the stables outside the city. There was no sign that the city had come under attack; there was no smoke in the air or flames licking the buildings, as in Morthal. Nor did the great stone bridge that led into the city have any bodies strewn across its length.

That was no reason for them to pause, however; Solitude had looked relatively peaceful—if occupied by a veritable army of guards—when M'Alga had assaulted the Blue Palace. No chances would be taken here this time.

"Nothing out of the ordinary down below," Brelyna said to Grimnir in an undertone as they walked up to the city gate. While Onmund had handed off the horse to the stablehands, she and J'zargo had taken a quick glance at the docks that ran along the River Yorgrim. They had seen several ships there—including one that J'zargo claimed to be the _Northern Maiden_ mentioned in the letter Grimnir had recovered—but nothing to suggest foul play.

They reached the great doors to Windhelm, flanked by two guards. Grimnir had to snort at the brazenness of Ulfric—even in the face of M'Alga's threat, he was so confident that he would win this civil war that he'd posted the most meager watch possible in his own city!

At least they seemed to recognize Grimnir for who he was, and immediately they stiffened, but did not salute. "Hail, Dragonborn," said one of them, motioning at his companion to open the gate.

Grimnir merely grunted in return as the mages strode inside—though he was inwardly grateful that there would be no General Tullius to explain himself to here. He was not in the mood for either banter or small talk. The sooner they got to Ulfric, the sooner he'd be able to relax.

* * *

The snowstorm had intensified to the point that most of Windhelm's residents had retired to their homes, or the inn directly in front of Grimnir. It made for an eerie scene, considering the threat he'd been preparing to face; he was half-expecting M'Alga to burst from every door or window he walked past. And the snow was not helping matters at all—it was playing tricks on his eyes, and every shadowed alley squirmed with rippled muscles and scaly tails.

Even the altercation that seemed to be brewing right before the mages did nothing to dispel the uneasiness of the setting: two Nords and a Dunmer—the latter looking weather-worn and resentful; both Nords, scornful and thuggish.

One of them pointed a thick finger at the Dunmer. "You come here where you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink—and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks." He sounded very drunk, and looked vaguely familiar to Grimnir.

"We haven't taken a side because it's not our fight!" protested the dark elf.

"Hey, Rolff," said the drunkard's companion, leering at the Dunmer woman, "maybe the reason these gray-skins don't help in the war is because they're Imperial spies!"

The elf actually groaned at this, and despite it all, Grimnir nearly did the same thing. Apparently it didn't matter if one sided with the Empire or the Stormcloaks; paranoia of either side knew no bounds.

"Imperial spies?" she scoffed. "You can't be serious!"

The one called Rolff leaned in close enough to the Dunmer that Grimnir felt his insides squirm. "Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy," he growled. "Angrenor and I've got ways of finding out what you really—"

But he did not finish his sentence; Grimnir had heard enough threats, and was in no mood to have to talk down the rumblings of a drunkard. He had therefore closed the distance between them in a few strides, and now cast a threatening shadow over all three people. "Is there a problem?" he rumbled.

Neither Rolff nor his companion, Angrenor, seemed to have drunk enough to not know exactly who was talking to them. Both of them made slight stammering noises in their throat, muffled slightly by a sudden gust of wind, then backed away from the Dunmer without a word—though not without some stony glances at her and the mages—especially Brelyna, who took the time to return a wilting look of her own.

The Dunmer who had been harassed nodded to each of them, muttered a quick thank-you, and then scurried away amidst the worsening storm. She looked just as hurried as the rest of them, and Grimnir couldn't blame her.

"Let's get to the palace," he muttered to Brelyna. "I don't like this at all. Windhelm's a big city. Plenty of escape routes, if M'Alga does sneak in."

"And he wouldn't have much trouble, either," remarked the elf, "unless there's more to those two Stormcloaks at the gate than meets the eye." She snorted. "Ulfric's not taking this half as seriously as he should be."

Grimnir nodded his agreement. "I'm very tempted to call in Odahviing," he said. "He'd give us an extra edge for sure." Several of them, in fact; Odahviing would be perfectly positioned to spot anything and anyone out of the ordinary from several hundred feet in the air. He wouldn't even need to attack anyone, and therefore run the risk of killing any innocent people—reconnaissance only, as simple as that.

But Brelyna's flat look had squashed the plan before she even opened her mouth. "Not a good idea," she replied as the four mages approached the keep of Windhelm, the Palace of the Kings. "A fully-grown dragon's more than enough to cause a panic—no matter whose side it's on. Considering that we're in someplace so confined, Odahviing could hurt our pursuit in the long run."

Grimnir could not help but see her point—but that didn't stop his thoughts from disagreeing with her.

"The moment we're inside, secure this place at all points," he muttered to the mages as they reached the door. "I've been in here before; I have a good enough understanding of what entry points are where. Any one of those places closest to the Jarl takes top priority. Understood?"

No one answered; the snowstorm had grown too loud for everyone to hear each other. But four nods, and four pairs of determined eyes, told Grimnir what he needed to know.

Three seconds later, ignoring the cries of the guards, they burst into the Palace of the Kings with purpose in every step.

* * *

A detached part of Grimnir's mind took note of the surroundings of the throne room as they strode in, and the people inside it. The long wooden table in the middle had been cleared in preparation for dinner, and was currently occupied by Jorleif, Ulfric's steward. Further down and either side of the table were two hallways, each guarded by two Stormcloak guards; two more guarded the main doors, through which the four mages had entered, and another two guarded the throne itself, each stationed directly under a flowing blue banner of a stylized bear's head—the symbol of Windhelm, and of its leader.

That leader, Ulfric Stormcloak, showed no indication of surprise at four uninvited persons marching into his palace. His hands remained rooted to the weathered stone chair he sat upon, and his eyes remained unsmiling as they roved between each mage, and finally to Grimnir, where they remained fixed, unblinking.

The two men beside Ulfric, meanwhile, instinctively put hands to weapons, watching out of the corner of their eye at the slightest sign from their Jarl and hero to turn them all to stains on the stone floor. _And of course the Stone-fist is one of them_, Grimnir thought bitterly as he noticed the man to Ulfric's left. Galmar looked as fierce as ever beneath the bear pelt that all Stormcloak officers wore. The two had met before, in the peace summit at High Hrothgar; while many there had been quick to voice their displeasure at being called to the Greybeards' ancient monastery, Galmar had been one of the first, and far and away the loudest.

To Ulfric's right, however, was a man Grimnir did not recognize; brawny and imposing, and well over six feet tall, with a bushy black beard he thought might be long enough to rival most Dwemer, were any alive left to compare it. A massive round shield, almost half his height, was slung over his back, and a double-bladed battleaxe, its blade as wide as it was tall, rested over one shoulder.

Grimnir assumed this man must be another Stormcloak—one high enough in Ulfric's chain of command that it warranted him being next to his king at all times. But the man's steel armor was vastly different from the leather and chainmail that most Stormcloaks wore—indeed, it more resembled the ancient Nordic armor that most draugr were buried in, right down to the two pointed goat's horns perched atop his helmet that added at least another foot to the Nord's already imposing stature. The armor, pitted as it was, had been polished to such a shine that it rivaled the sun, and instinctively Grimnir knew this man, whoever he was, was a warrior to the core.

But he brushed aside the thought for later—it was time to act.

"J'zargo, stay here," he began to reel off, never breaking stride as he closed in on Ulfric. "Keep an eye on the doors behind and either side of you. Onmund, head off and to the left; Brelyna, go right. Keep Jarl Ulfric in sight, all of you, and keep your eyes and ears out for trouble at all times!"

Each of the three mages hurried off to secure the three points he'd indicated. The guards, agitated, drew their weapons and prepared to intercept them, but Grimnir Shouted, "_Lok … Vah KOOR!_" The resulting BOOM shook the palace to its highest tower, and rattled the chandeliers in their chains, and the guards desisted.

Galmar, meanwhile, had advanced a few paces, and was eyeing Grimnir with a mixture of scrutiny and disbelief that did not suit him at all. "Dragonborn?" he eventually asked. The tone of his voice felt vaguely familiar to Grimnir. "What are you doing here?"

Grimnir ignored him. "I want this hall sealed up tight," he barked to the guards in the hall, now that he had their undivided attention. "No one in or out without my knowledge!"

"Galmar asked you a question, friend."

As if by the power of some unknown magic, all within fell silent as Ulfric Stormcloak rose to his feet.

The Voice of this man was legend—almost as much as Grimnir's own, many said, though Grimnir had not had the brazen stones to demonstrate said voice in front of a High King, nor did he wish to. But even if Ulfric had not possessed this awesome weapon, within his words there lurked a flame, a patriotic fervor forged in fire and blood and untold anguish that could stir—and had stirred in its day—entire legions of people to rally under his banner.

That voice was now directed in full at Grimnir as the Jarl of Windhelm slowly advanced on him. "You come here without summons, and proceed to order my guards around as if they are yours to command." Though Ulfric spoke softly, his words still echoed in the great hall. "Dragonborn you may be, but _I_ am Jarl of this city.

"Now," he asked, "why are you here?"

Grimnir took a moment to swallow before he spoke. "I'm sorry, my Jarl," he said, "but we—_I_ have reason to believe your life is in danger."

Behind them, Galmar let fly with a bark of laughter. "Oh, do tell us of this danger!" he boomed. "Is it the Empire, hoping to weave more lies of revenge after the attempt on their Emperor's life? Which we had nothing to do with," he added with a look at the Arch-Mage, "just so that's out of the way!"

Grimnir paid no heed to the denial. Throughout the conversation, he'd been wondering where he'd heard that familiar voice before—and then he understood: he'd heard it from Galmar first, and then that man called Rolff. Were the two men related somehow—cousins, even brothers?

"Perhaps the Dominion has tired of watching their lapdogs be slaughtered by our steel!" Galmar continued to boast. "Or is it the Thalmor necromancers again—or that brute they call a pet what murdered the Ravencrone?"

"And nearly murdered Jarl Elisif only yesterday!" Grimnir shouted, anxious to get a word in edgewise. Mercifully, Galmar was blindsided enough by the interruption to not immediately resume his bragging, and Grimnir took the opportunity to continue.

"The monster we call M'Alga infiltrated the Blue Palace under the very noses of the Penitus Oculatus _and_ the Solitude city guard." He looked Ulfric directly in the eye, willing himself to not blink. "There is _nothing_ in Windhelm that can keep him away from attacking you next, Ulfric. It's only a matter of time until M'Alga decides to come here."

* * *

Meanwhile, the Dunmer Grimnir had encountered earlier was pacing about the street in consternation and fear.

Suvaris Atheron, however, was no longer concerned about being accosted by drunkards and racists. In just a matter of seconds, her life had been turned upside down, and in a whirl of memory that she only dimly remembered even moments later, she had sent for the town guard, and told them to come with all haste to House Shatter-Shield.

Her heart suddenly leapt as three Stormcloaks in identical, faceless uniforms marched up to her. "This had better not be another harassment complaint, Suvaris," said their leader, in a voice that dripped with weary annoyance.

Suvaris sighed. "Believe me, I wish it was," she said softly, trying her best to pull herself together and explain as best she could. "Something's happened to Torbjorn. I've been looking for him everywhere—he wanted to meet me, discuss shipping operations. I would have gotten here sooner, if I hadn't run into the Stone-fist's brother first. But when I did get here, he … he … "

But she could not finish her sentence; the images of the horrible things she had seen remained stuck in her head, and she began to stammer and stutter in an effort to work past it.

A second guard sighed. "Just show us in and stow it," he said irritably. "We'll have a talk with the man, and we'll get this whole mess sorted out."

"But—" Suvaris' protest died on her lips; the guards had already barged past her as if she was nothing more than a cutting of scathecraw, and entered Torbjorn's house—which was already unlocked, thanks to Suvaris being one of the two people that held a key to the house now.

There had been more keys at one time, being carried by more people; the Shatter-Shields were once one of the most respected families in Windhelm, and competed with the East Empire Company for local trade routes. But in an unimaginably short time, everything had gone horribly wrong for them. An agent of the EEC had disclosed several years ago that the Shatter-Shields had made use of pirates to raid several ports belonging to the Company. Suvaris herself had acted as the go-between in that sordid affair; Torbjorn had nearly fired her on the spot for allegations of incompetence, even though it wouldn't have mattered either way; the company was all but bankrupt now.

But that had only been the beginning. Only months later, the Butcher—already a notorious serial killer in Windhelm before then—had struck again, and claimed the life of his daughter Friga. Shortly thereafter, Friga's twin sister Nilsine was murdered in an alleyway in broad daylight; there were whispers that the Dark Brotherhood had been involved. The loss of both children in such a short timespan had torn the family apart; poor Tova had never recovered from the shock and the sorrow. Torbjorn had found his wife upstairs in the bedroom one morning, a note in her hand—and her neck in a noose.

From that moment on, Torbjorn spent his life in a constant state of grief over the loss of his wife and daughters. He'd never left his house ever since, and admitted very few people inside. Suvaris, as his only remaining employee, was one of those precious few; Torbjorn had largely left the operation of their office on the docks to her, and sent in handwritten letters with instructions daily to the fastidious Dunmer.

As she entered the Shatter-Shield home, Suvaris was well aware of how far the family had fallen, and nowhere was this more evident than in the décor of the house. Once well-lit and -furnished with a number of fine rugs and rare hardwoods they'd shipped in their company's heyday, the vast majority of the manor's contents had been sold off by Torbjorn, leaving behind a cold, nearly lightless wreck—a creaking, gutted shadow of its own self.

"Torbjorn?" called one of the guards, swinging a lantern to and fro, illuminating the decrepit rooms one by one. "Torbjorn?"

No response. Suvaris bit her lip as they went deeper inside, floorboards creaking noisily under their feet. She didn't say anything about what she'd seen up there—she couldn't. She wanted nothing more than to turn back and run—but she knew the guards would stop her at a moment's notice. One wrong move would get her arrested, or worse.

They climbed up the stairs.

It was much colder on the second floor. The wind hissed and howled, and Suvaris' shivering intensified. Any minute now, she would see it again. She wondered if they were truly alone here, in this house. Every sound, every sensation seemed to multiply by ten even as it was made. Was that truly the wind the Dunmer was hearing, hissing and blowing in her face like a wispmother's breath? Were the creaks on the wooden floors coming from just four people?

"What the devil?!"

Suvaris squeezed her eyes shut at the outburst. She didn't need to see what the guard had just discovered. And yet, some morbid sense of fascination compelled her to force her eyes back open, and look at the grotesque nature of the scene she had witnessed only minutes ago.

And she paled.

"Suvaris," said one of the guards slowly. "You'd better explain what we're looking at here."

The body of Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was lying in his wrecked bed, amidst a pile of wood, stone, and drifting snow. The source of the debris, and the source of the drafty nature of the house, was immediately explained by the large hole that had been punched through the roof, like a mammoth had been dropped straight through the shingles. Torbjorn's face stared flatly at the hole in his house, his glassy eyes unblinking, unable to see again.

But there were two very good reasons Suvaris had suddenly gone so pale. It wasn't that she'd seen Torbjorn alive and well just minutes ago; no, by that time she'd already known Torbjorn was dead—his body had been unscathed, save for the massive wound that Suvaris had seen amidst his tattered clothing, running from the base of his spine to well past his skull.

And that was the first reason she had reacted in such a way: Torbjorn had been discovered lying _face-down_, not _face-up_.

Which led right to the second reason. Suvaris had not left the house at all ever since she'd sent for the guard. She had been willing to swear under oath and by the Reclamations that no one had come in or out in the scant minutes between then and when they'd shown up. But seeing Torbjorn like this could only mean one thing: the body had been tampered with.

_The killer was still inside_.

Suvaris remembered the noises she had heard as she'd ascended the stairs with the guards. Like someone else—a _fifth_ person—was climbing alongside them. And she remembered the strange hissing she'd thought had been the wind—

And she ran.

Suvaris Atheron ran from the scene, ignoring the cries of the guards; she ran for the Palace of the Kings, her sights fully set on alerting the Jarl to the grisliest murder she'd ever laid eyes upon—

She ran only three paces.

It felt as if she'd collided with an invisible wall, its surface soft, but taut beneath—and just at the edge of her vision, a slight rippling, like the slightest of disturbances on a silent pond.

_The wall was alive_.

It was a living, breathing, _hulking_ thing, and Suvaris could neither move or speak for sheer terror. Then, suddenly, there was a sensation like a thousand searing daggers inside her chest. Looking down, she saw the tattered fabric of her clothing—and the rapidly growing pool of blood and intestines spattering at her feet.

She'd been torn down the middle.

And now there was a new pain, a tearing sensation either side of her ribcage that only grew worse by the moment, and even before Suvaris felt the unimaginably large claws sink into her breast as if it was nothing more than parchment, she knew how her life was going to end.

Her final thoughts to Azura were only that it would end soon.

She was wrong.

* * *

"What makes you think we are in any danger at all?" Galmar, meanwhile, continued to bluster. "Imperials, elves, necromancers, monsters—it does not matter to us! Ulfric's mastery of the Voice is second only to yours, Dragonborn! You know what he did to Deadking Torygg—you can imagine what it would to do a lesser man than him."

He gestured to Ulfric here, as if putting his hero on display before a crowd. But Grimnir—who knew full well the story of High King Torygg's death—was far from amused. And though the Jarl masked it with a small little smile, the Arch-Mage had a suspicion Ulfric inwardly felt the same way.

"And Varulf Blackmane here is the Harbinger of the Companions!" Galmar went on, pointing to the black-bearded Nord, who alone of the three highest-ranking Stormcloaks had yet to speak up. "As fine a one as Ysgramor in the flesh, and in his prime as well! He has slain many elves and necromancers like them, and worse!"

"M'Alga will not die so easily!" retorted Grimnir, his patience beginning to wear thin. "I have faced the monster three times already, and each time I have seen new and frightening powers at his command. He is unlike anything this world has ever faced, and he is getting stronger every day!" He turned to Ulfric. "Unless he is dealt with soon, my Jarl, there is nothing to be gained in fighting this civil war! All you're doing is ensuring the Black Worm have more bodies to turn against us!"

"What powers are these?"

The voice was either so unfamiliar, or so unexpected, that even Galmar did not speak for a few moments. All eyes now snapped in the direction of the man called Varulf, whose gruff bark of a voice still echoed off the walls.

It suddenly occurred to Grimnir what Galmar had just said about Varulf—this was the Harbinger of the Companions. That took him aback, and for a moment he quite forgot why he was here in the first place. The men and women of Jorrvaskr had little interest in politics, preferring instead to fight for honor and glory.

Grimnir could not fathom what their Harbinger, of all people, would stand to gain as a Stormcloak—although it certainly explained his choice in weapons and armor to some degree. He'd seen enough illustrations of Ysgramor's legendary ebony battleaxe that he had no trouble recognizing the same Wuuthrad currently being gripped in Varulf's fingers.

"Tell us all you know of this monster, Dragonborn," the Harbinger said, turning his gaze to Grimnir. His eyes were incredibly bloodshot, the Arch-Mage saw, as if the Nord went for days at a time without a peaceful night's rest. "If you are right, this M'Alga will come here next."

In a single swipe, Varulf had drawn Wuuthrad with his one hand, and hefted it with surprising strength like a club. "And we will be ready for him when he does."

Theatrics aside, Grimnir was inwardly thankful that Varulf had chosen to dispense with the boasting. Here, then, was a man of action, and he felt a sudden surge of respect for the hitherto unknown Nord rise in his heart. He therefore wasted no time in telling Varulf what he knew of M'Alga—how he had been created, the logic behind how he had come to be, and the powers that the process had given him.

"The Thalmor are conspiring with a necromantic cult?" Varulf mused out loud, his expression unsettled. Galmar looked as angry as ever, but an element of distaste was evident on his face as he came to understand that two of his least favorite forces in the world—one hated by principle, another by rhetoric—were working together. Ulfric's face, by contrast, was completely unreadable—a fact that vexed Grimnir to no end.

"That's what we know so far," he answered Varulf. "We know one of their agents been providing the Black Worm with supplies—specifically, a soul that was later trapped in a black soul gem. And we've also recovered correspondence from that agent that suggests that the Thalmor High Justiciar himself is personally involved in this affair. Maybe even issuing orders to eliminate the main players in this civil war. Idgrod Ravencrone was just a test for M'Alga. Killing her ensured the path to Solitude—and Elisif—was clear. But we were able to thwart the attempt on Elisif's life, though M'Alga escaped. Which leaves you, Ulfric."

The doors leading out to Windhelm yawned open, admitting three guards and a figure swathed in thick black rags. J'zargo made a noise of indistinct protest, but one of the guards laid a hand on the hilt of his sword, and the Khajiit was promptly silent.

"Excuse us," Ulfric finally spoke, his eyes flitting to the new arrivals. Grimnir growled under his breath at being shunted aside like this—the Jarl of Windhelm truly had no cares about who was coming for his life. Was he that confident in his Voice? Or was there something else going on that he was missing?

"Who is this?" Ulfric demanded of the guards. "Why did you bring him here to me?"

"_Her_, milord," responded the soldier in the lead. "This _elf_ claims to be a member of the Order of the Black Worm."

Grimnir whirled around, his stomach immediately dropping like a lead weight. _What?!_

"She also claims," continued the guard, "to have knowledge of an assassination plot concerning you, my Jarl."

Varulf immediately sprang into action. "Jorleif, put the city on alert! Seal this palace immediately!" Ulfric's steward immediately disappeared down a hallway.

Meanwhile, Brelyna had sidled up to Grimnir, and surreptitiously elbowed him in the stomach. "Something's wrong here," she whispered to the Arch-Mage. "Those guards. Look at the way they're standing."

Grimnir did, and frowned, he couldn't see anything too out of the ordinary, except that they seemed to be much more relaxed than normal soldiers—

_Wait_.

Galmar, meanwhile, was eyeing the guards with intense scrutiny. "Why did you not clap this elf in irons when she claimed to be a necromancer?!" he demanded.

"No guard worth his salt would behave that way when escorting such a high-risk person as a necromancer," muttered Brelyna to Grimnir.

"She demanded to see the Jarl personally," said the guard.

But that wasn't right, Grimnir thought. He could barely make out a misshapen face among all those dark rags: a flat nose, two wide cheeks, and the hints of a fair number of chins or goiter. But what disturbed Grimnir the most about this face was that the eyes, unseen behind the figure's tattered clothes, were not focused on Ulfric at all.

In fact, they almost seemed to be looking directly at _Varulf_.

Grimnir stepped forward. "Reveal yourself to us, necromancer!" he barked, with an authority he never knew he'd possessed. "Show your face and explain your intent!"

He could almost imagine the woman's eyes swiveled briefly in his direction, before settling back on Varulf. _"As you wish … Dragonborn."_

Grimnir felt as though his insides had suddenly been flash-frozen. That was _not_ a woman's voice.

Then the figure swept off its tattered wrappings, and many things happened at once.

* * *

When he looked back on it in the years to come, Grimnir found he had only a scant few memories of the next few moments; so much had happened at almost exactly the same time that it was too much for him to fully take in. He did not hear the shouts of shock and revulsion from all around him as the figure disrobed before their eyes without any warning whatsoever.

Grimnir had, up until this point, taken this elf to be a rather obese necromancer. Then the rags had slid down the wide belly of the woman, and the sight it revealed was a thousand times worse than he could ever have imagined.

Where he had expected to see rolls of fat on the arms and chest, there was only _skin _and _flesh_, stretched to the tearing point in a dozen places. A massive, scabbed chest wound, resembling nothing so much as a second, giant pair of bloodied lips, split the chest of the woman down the middle. The face of the Dunmer—for the ash-gray color could still be discerned—was bloated beyond recognition, its features distorted in a frozen expression of horror.

And under the woman's gray _skin and flesh_—a horribly familiar shade of scaly green.

Grimnir did not remember roaring for everyone to take cover—he'd suddenly realized what was going to happen an instant before it did, and he quickly made to cast a ward around himself as his free hand sparked with lightning.

What happened next, Grimnir could not think of a better description for it: the Dunmer _exploded_.

The woman's arms suddenly expanded, ripped apart from within by muscular limbs four times their size, and the skin and flesh was sloughed off. The torso was torn to shreds by a spiky, whipping tail—cleverly wrapped around a broad, scaly chest—and the chins of the woman ruptured as a bestial head exploded from within.

A far-off part of Grimnir heard a voice swearing at the top of his lungs as the scene unfolded before his eyes, fogged and distorted as though he was hearing it underwater. He did not learn till later that the voice was his own, nor did he discover until after the fact that bile had risen in his stomach, and dribbled out of his mouth at the revolting sight.

The Arch-Mage was too concerned with the fact that _somehow_, in a vessel far too small to contain him, _M'Alga had appeared in the Palace of the Kings_—and in the most unexpected and frightening manner he'd ever witnessed.

The shock was not limited to him alone; everyone, including Ulfric, was standing in horror at the sight of the lizard-man standing in a pile of discarded flesh and clothing. There were a few moments of stunned silence.

And then: "_You_."

M'Alga spoke the single word with a razor-thin edge to his rumbling voice. Clearly he did not relish the fact that Grimnir was standing right between him and Ulfric—but beneath the edge lay an almost-nonexistent veil of resignation; he'd been expecting the Arch-Mage to show up.

And then … M'Alga _laughed_.

A deep, booming laugh from the stomach, almost mocking in its exaggeration—but unsettling to the extreme for Grimnir; knowing this monster had anything resembling a sense of humor somehow felt more offensive to his tastes than the fact he had just exploded out of an unwilling puppet of flesh.

"_You are beginning to learn, Dragonborn,_" smirked M'Alga. "_You no longer merely pursue me, or grasp at straws as to where you shall find me next. You are not as reckless as you were in Morthal._"

A very small part of Grimnir felt grudgingly flattered at the compliment—very, _very_ small. "How did you get here so quickly?" he demanded, not daring to betray an ounce of fear.

"_The flesh and blood of mortal beings was given to create me,_" said the horror, gesturing at its own body, "_and now it is the flesh and blood of others that sustains this form I have taken, and makes it stronger and stronger by the day._

"_I represent the ultimate goal of every necromancer of Nirn—to create life from the lifeless,_" M'Alga sneered. "_Very soon, the ritual that gave me this body will no longer be necessary to my existence. And when that happens, the Black Worm shall honor me beyond my wildest dreams._

His voice lowered, became more like the monster he resembled. "_I shall be … __**truly alive**__."_

Grimnir was astonished. How could a necromantic creation be _truly alive?_ It was almost a contradiction in and of itself. "How do you mean, 'truly alive'?" he asked irritably. "I am in no mood for double-talk, M'Alga. Tell me your secrets, and I may give you a quick death for the crimes you have committed here!"

"_I have no secrets left to give you,_" M'Alga said simply. "_And the grub protects _his_ secrets with the utmost care._"

The _grub_. Ancano's last words rang in Grimnir's head like the roar of a descending dragon.

_Beware the grub_.

All of a sudden, a stunned Grimnir forgot about where he was, and the people he was supposed to be protecting. All that occupied his world was that single word, and the monster that had dared utter it in front of him.

"What is the _grub_, M'Alga?!" he roared at the monster, spittle flying from his mouth. "Who is it? What does he have to do with the Thalmor?"

"_Nothing that concerns you,_" said M'Alga cryptically, his tone again maddeningly simple for a being of his size and shape. "_Not yet. Now if you will excuse me, I'm going to kill the man behind you. Letting him live will make things very complicated for certain … organizations._"

"I stopped you from murdering Jarl Elisif," Grimnir shot back. "And I'll stop you from murdering Ulfric as well!"

M'Alga laughed again, even louder and longer than before, and this time, there was no mistaking the derision in his laughter. "_I only said I'd kill the man behind you!_" he bellowed. "_What led you to believe I was talking about _Ulfric?"

Grimnir's jaw went slack. _What had he just said?_

Slowly, automatically, the Arch-Mage turned around to look at the man behind him—the man M'Alga had just now singled out as his intended target.

Varulf Blackmane, Harbinger of the Companions, stared back at the monster, and for the first time since Grimnir had seen him, the Stormcloak looked genuinely fearful. "Me?" Varulf murmured.

"_Yes …_ " M'Alga now stalked slowly towards him, raising a hand to brush away Grimnir, who remained so shocked he didn't even protest. _Ulfric isn't the target?_ his mind kept thinking. _Ulfric wasn't the one in danger?_

"_You have no idea what you've become involved in_," the monster breathed in the Harbinger's face. "_No idea at all._"

Grimnir heard the sound of steel against steel, and he felt his muscles tense.

And then came Varulf's voice, with hardly a hint of fear to it at all. "Then why don't you _let me __**guess?**_"

What happened next was very fast. In a flash, Wuuthrad was in the hands of the Harbinger, and whirled in a long sideways arc, striking M'Alga full on the face with the flat of the battleaxe's blade. M'Alga roared in pain, loud enough to rattle the chains of the light fixtures above them, and blindly swung a massive clawed fist at the Nord.

But Varulf appeared to possess reflexes beyond those of any Nord, despite his heavy armor; as quickly as he'd swung his weapon, the massive shield on his back was hefted in his free hand. This he swung at the creature's stomach; the sharpened rim of the shield sliced a deep gash in the monster's torso, causing another bellow of anguish from M'Alga as he bent double from the wound, spitting teeth and blood aplenty onto the carpet.

The Harbinger was not done, however. In a feat of strength that most Orsimer in their prime would be hard-pressed to duplicate, Varulf grasped the monster at his wounded waist and his thick neck—and _lifted him bodily_ with a thunderous roar of exertion before hurling him against the nearby wall, cracking the stone from the force of the impact and causing a tapestry to fall on the subdued monster's form.

Grimnir allowed himself only a moment's worth of staring agog at M'Alga, then Varulf, and back to M'Alga again as he processed the absurdity of what he'd just seen. Then, quite suddenly, as if his body was responding on its own, the Arch-Mage's arms sparked with lightning, and within seconds, the Palace of the Kings was filled to the rafters with fire, ice, and electricity—all of it directed at the monster laying on the floor.

M'Alga, however, had not boasted about his greater strength for nothing. Even as the barrage continued, Grimnir saw the wounds Varulf had inflicted beginning to seal up through the monster's regenerative powers. His scales began to shimmer, and Grimnir swore; the Breton blood inside M'Alga was absorbing every last ounce of the incoming magic through his scales, adding it to his own—and into the waiting claws of the monster.

The guards, meanwhile—who everyone seemed to have forgotten in the midst of the chaos M'Alga had created—drew their blades, and were now attacking anyone within reach. Two luckless soldiers near the hallway Onmund had been guarding were slain before anyone knew what was happening. The Nord mage dispatched one of them with a flurry of well-aimed ice spikes to the guards, and his body tumbled to the floor—

—and dissolved into ash.

"Thralls!" Grimnir heard Onmund shout, and he then understood; the guards had indeed been part of M'Alga's ruse, as Brelyna had suspected—he must have killed them earlier, and reanimated them before he'd arrived in the palace, he thought as J'zargo wiped out a second undead guard with a ferocious blast of fire.

Brelyna's arms crackled with lightning as the third guard dissolved at her feet. But even before the remains of the soldier had hit the ground, Grimnir had known the purpose of these thralls; they were nothing more than a distraction—M'Alga had known they would focus their firepower on him, and so he had reanimated the guards to attack any bystanders, soldiers or civilians.

Two guards were pelting M'Alga with arrows while he proceeded to savage a platoon of guards that had just burst in from the upstairs corridor. The monster did not dodge the missiles, and as the platoon fell one by one, the arrows meanwhile burrowed in his flesh like a hedgehog's spines. An instant later, M'Alga bulled towards the courageous Stormcloaks, and brought their heads together with such force that their brain matter spattered the high ceiling of the keep.

"_More_," he growled, and his gigantic palms crackled with fell magic. M'Alga cast reanimation spells on the fallen guards he'd savaged, and all of them rose up as if on strings to obey his command.

Six of them, he'd managed to animate this time. Still good enough odds for them to fight, Grimnir thought.

_"Fus … Ro DAH!"_

Especially since Ulfric had decided to join the fight, he amended, failing to conceal a triumphant grin.

The Jarl's Shout caught three of his former guards full on, slamming them against the wall and pulverizing their bodies to dust. Galmar and Varulf now moved to join the fray, taking out one guard apiece with their battleaxes within seconds of one another.

Grimnir confronted the last guard just as he was about to raise a blade to Jorleif's neck. _"Zuun … Haal VIIK!"_ he bellowed. A blast of wind blew from his lips, tearing the sword out of the thrall's hand as if it was nothing more than a toy. Before the blade could be recovered, Grimnir swiftly maneuvered himself so that he was between the zombie and the steward, and flash-burned the soldier into dust with a single thunderbolt.

An eerie calm subsided as the sounds of battle faded away. No one thought to consider the silence further until Grimnir turned around—and saw the spiked tail disappearing out of the keep's front door.

"No!" he shouted—he would not suffer this indignity a third time. M'Alga was not going to hide behind any more bodies—not today! Ignoring the cries of the others, he launched himself after the monster at breakneck speed, bulling through the door with such force that the hinges nearly gave way.

_No more murder—no more bodies—_"No more!" he roared as he pursued M'Alga through the courtyard. "You will never touch the people of Skyrim ever again!"

The fleeing M'Alga sent a thunderbolt at Grimnir, but a quick ward deflected it into a nearby battlement, sending bits of stone onto the street and causing people to scatter.

"Get out of the way!" Grimnir screamed at them, feeling his throat tearing in half. "Get to safety—now!"

Guards were taking up arms amidst the chaos, sending arrows into M'Alga's scaly hide, but they might as well have been shooting the walls of the city for all the good it did them—M'Alga was only becoming more maddened by the onslaught—he was rushing towards Grimnir, casting lightning without discrimination at everyone around him—

_"NO!"_

Grimnir had no time to cast a spell, not even a ward or a simple gout of flame—he closed his eyes, bracing for the impact—

But suddenly he paused. Who had screamed? It certainly wasn't him—and it was too loud to be an ordinary townsperson. That only left—

He opened his eyes, and the most unusual sight Grimnir had seen today—and perhaps even the most terrifying—was taking shape right in front of him.

M'Alga—all nine feet of his muscled body—was thrashing at the air from neck to heel as if trying to rip another body. His movements were erratic, jerking, and his giant clawed feet could not decide whether to move forwards or backwards, with the end result being him stamping about in the town square like a toddler with a tantrum—except toddlers didn't normally leave shield-size dents in solid stone and crack it like flatbread.

"_No, master!_" the monster was howling throughout his fits. "_I have not finished with him yet! Please—let me kill him! Pleeeeaaa—!_"

The cry for help turned into a horrible, keening shriek that should not have come from a monster that size—and then M'Alga charged.

Straight for Grimnir.

The Arch-Mage was too close to cast any kind of spell. He could only stare at the rapidly approaching shape of the monster, and the stunned and horrified looks of the crowds that had formed around them.

And as those faces stared back at Grimnir—the faces of men, women, and children alike … it happened.

It felt as if the Red Mountain had erupted without warning inside Grimnir's body. Flames licked at the edge of his vision, and the great inferno that he'd only felt once before tore at his insides. He could hear screaming, but he did not know if it was the people around him or his own.

But the Dragonborn did not care.

All _he_ cared about was M'Alga—the one evil that the fires of his rage had not yet consumed.

He had no memory of moving a single muscle—let alone his fist, or his arm. The inferno had boiled over, and its towering flames spilled from his mouth, and Spoke three words.

**_"FENT … NEH … VIIK!"_**

It was not a Shout, or anything close to any spell. But the Words of the dragon's language could not only convey their thoughts, or indeed, the power they possessed—but their determination as well, their iron resolve. The _dov_ would stop at nothing to see victory in their grasp—and the Dragonborn was no different than them in this regard. He would do whatever it took to win.

_You will _not_ defeat me._

His arm was growing hot to the touch, and at the edge of his vision, the Dragonborn saw the same inferno spreading along his flesh, erupting from his fist, mutating into a roaring, reptilian visage, older and more powerful by far than the imitation of life that was almost upon him—

And he _swung_.

He felt nothing—no recoil from the force of the impact, not even the impact itself—but the punch had hit home. The monster was blasted backward as if by the Dragonborn's own Unrelenting Force, propelled like a hawk on the wing into the inn, careening into the upper story and shattering not only the window, but a large section of the wall as well. Dust, glass, wood, and masonry rained down upon the square.

The Dragonborn let loose a long, shuddering breath as the inferno ebbed in his chest, feeling the flames around his body flicker and die.

Then he saw the crowds.

Silence met his ears, and the stunned looks of the populace of Windhelm were all that held his attention. No one was cheering his triumph, no one was thanking him for the service he'd done. Not even the three mages behind him, who stood facing him with the blankest expressions Grimnir had ever seen.

He felt his insides knot up in shame as he realized what had happened … what he had done.

An eternity seemed to pass before he turned to Onmund, intending to say "I'm so sorry"—but the words died in his throat when he realized the Nord wasn't looking at Grimnir, but past him, at a point somewhere over his shoulder.

Grimnir did not need to turn around to know why: the hole in the roof of the tavern was empty.

M'Alga was gone.

* * *

He wanted to feel angry, to lash out for his continuing failure to bring M'Alga down. But Grimnir could no longer muster the energy. He felt burnt out … empty. His body felt leaden as he and his companions returned to the keep.

A guard was just concluding his report to Ulfric as the four mages reentered the palace and approached him. "We searched the inn thoroughly and found nothing, milord," said the Stormcloak. Witnesses say that the monster escaped through the docks amidst the confusion. No one saw any trace of injury on the beast. By the time we arrived, it was out of range."

His report concluded, the guard saluted, and disappeared through the doorway to the upstairs corridor. His words were swiftly drowned out by one of the loudest, longest silences the Arch-Mage had ever heard. No one dared to speak or move, not even Onmund, whose face had yet to waver from Grimnir. And the cold gaze of Ulfric, now returned to his throne, had yet to stop piercing Grimnir's own.

Finally, the Jarl spoke. "Jorleif."

Next to him, the steward cleared his throat. "Eleven dead, my Jarl—Suvaris Atheron and old Torbjorn, as well as the nine guards reanimated by the monster. Eight civilians injured, six more unaccounted for." He lowered the missive he'd been reading from, and gave a rare swallow. "It could have been much worse."

"Double your search," Ulfric said imperiously from his throne. "And make the arrangements with the families of the deceased. Give the dead the proper Nord sendoff they deserve." He raised his voice slightly. "Leave us."

Jorleif and the surviving guards hastened to obey. There were now only seven people left in the hall—the three high-ranking Stormcloaks, and the four mages of Winterhold.

Ulfric sighed. "I'm disappointed in you, Dragonborn," he said heavily. "I believed you to be a hero of Skyrim. But I wonder if those twenty-five people could say the same today. What about their friends, and families? What will they think of you and the College now?"

Grimnir wished Ulfric had shouted the words at him; hearing him remain so calm made the shame hurt worse than ever. He did not wish to think about it any further. He knew Jorleif was right—he knew what happened today could have been so much worse. But the fact of the matter was clear—he'd lost control again. This time, he'd done it in the middle of the worst place it was possible to lose control, and at exactly the wrong time.

" … I take full responsibility for this," the Arch-Mage said, remembering full well the anger he'd received from Tullius and Maro from so long ago, and the same words he now echoed today. "Do not get the rest of my College involved."

"How very noble of you," Ulfric said dismissively. "I will not ask further about what you displayed in my city today. You are Dragonborn—your power is far different from mine, and much less understood than the Voice we both speak. Interrogating you would prove nothing. You are free to go where you wish."

He leaned forward. "But know this: a true hero does not simply protect his people from threats and ill will," he said. "He walks among them, sharing words, food and drink … and the fears of the war to come."

Not bothering to wait for Grimnir's response, he turned to his two subordinates. "Galmar. Varulf. Send word to every last one of our encampments in Skyrim. _Burn Haafingar to the ground_."

Galmar's mouth split in an ugly smile. "_Yes_."

"Shall we start at the Thalmor Embassy?" grunted Varulf. "If these mages are to be believed, they are the ones behind that monster's existence. And I for one think the elves have meddled in our homeland _enough!_" He ran a hand over the blade of Wuuthrad, as if caressing a lover.

"Stay your hand, friend Varulf," Ulfric said, ever the eye of the storm. "The elves will pay in due course. But for now, they are too well equipped. Facing them today would be suicide for us all. We will start with the Empire. We will burn them out of Skyrim first, like the kindling of a fire. Seize Fort Hraggstad from their failing grasp. After that," he paused here, deliberately holding in his breath for effect, "we march on Solitude."

"Solitude!" Onmund's expression was of undisguised shock. "But—the Emperor—!"

"—will have already left the city by then," Galmar interrupted him, still continuing to wear that sneering grimace of a smile. "If he's smart, at least. I should hope that wasn't why you were _really_ in the city to begin with," he added. "The sons of Skyrim do not look kindly on those who would _betray their own blood_."

He cast a nasty look at Grimnir as he said this.

Brelyna managed to catch Onmund in her grasp before he rushed for Galmar, and things escalated even further. "Don't," she hissed in his ear. "None of us have any say in this."

She turned to the Stormcloak leaders. "If that is all, we will be leaving now," she said, her voice clear as a bell, not bothering to disguise her resentment of the men before her. "_We_ have a province to save, _thank you very much_."

The echoes of her voice on the walls of the palace only intensified the stony silence that met them. Brelyna huffed, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the keep with Onmund and J'zargo in tow—though not before casting a dark look at the Arch-Mage that plainly said, _We'll talk later._

Grimnir felt another pang of shame at the sight, and, desperate to avert his eyes, cast one last look at the triumvirate of Nords. His gaze lingered for a while on Varulf, and for a moment he could have sworn the Harbinger nodded at him, with just the barest possible movement. But the moment passed, and Varulf stood as resolute as ever.

Finally, bowing slightly to the Jarl, Grimnir turned and walked away.

* * *

The moment the mages stepped back outside into the snowstorm, Brelyna started talking.

"We need to go back to the College," she said. "No, Grimnir—for once, M'Alga can wait," she hastily added, throwing up her arms defensively to ward off any rebuttals from the Arch-Mage. "Something's not right about any of this. Before any of us thinks about setting off to find M'Alga again, we need to do some investigating."

Grimnir, however, was not concerned with the fact that the abomination had gotten away yet again for a change—but rather in the choice of his target. "I thought for sure M'Alga was going after Ulfric!" he seethed. "But this Varulf person—what would the Black Worm want with him? I never even heard of the man until today!"

"A Worm is a worm, when all you have is a rod and hook," J'zargo said sagely.

Nobody answered him at first. This was expected of J'zargo; Khajiit had an unfortunate tendency to be treated as too clever for their own good, and too clever to get along with most of their peers. This went double for Khajiiti mages—though to his credit, J'zargo was clever enough to keep his tongue to himself rather than spout off ancient, moonsugar-fueled wisdom of a Mane—most of the time.

But Brelyna had turned to J'zargo, an odd look on her face. "I don't know what's more bizarre, J'zargo," she said, "the words that just came out of your mouth—or that I think I know what you meant by it."

Grimnir and Onmund both looked their confusion. Even J'zargo looked taken aback by the compliment.

"Think about it," Brelyna told them. "We've gone into this assuming that the Thalmor have been supplying the Black Worm with resources for necromantic rituals—some of which were responsible for creating M'Alga—and that M'Alga's been acting on their orders."

"So that's why Varulf was targeted over Ulfric?" mused Onmund. "The Dominion must have a load of intelligence on Varulf, to choose eliminating him over the Stormcloak leader himself."

Brelyna shrugged. "Perhaps, but as far as what we just saw, I don't think M'Alga's simply _acting_ on the Thalmor's orders. I think he's being coerced. Maybe even controlled. It would certainly explain why he said the things he did."

_Someone was controlling M'Alga?_ The thought in itself sounded almost impossible after what Grimnir had seen. But even necromancy had its limits to power, he knew, and Brelyna was versed well enough in magickal theory that Grimnir was not about to doubt her opinion any time soon.

"M'Alga may be a powerful foe … but at the heart of it, he is still just another thrall," said J'zargo.

"But you heard him yourself," the Dunmer pressed on. "He's getting stronger—perhaps even _too_ strong for the Thalmor to command. I think that's what he meant—his mind is evolving to the point where it's beginning to reject the Dominion's control over him. It's only a hunch," she said, "but if it's true, M'Alga could gain a sense of free will any minute."

Grimnir remembered how M'Alga had appeared to argue with someone who wasn't there, and then, almost automatically, he recalled a memory of his time in Morthal, when he had first battled the monster.

_You are strong. But I am stronger._

_There is little about you that I don't already know … Grimnir Torn-Skull._

_No, master! I have not finished with him yet!_

_I shall be … truly alive._

He remembered how different M'Alga's voice had sounded—how one moment, it had sounded affable, and dare he say it, cultured—and the next, feral and driven by primal instinct to survive and become stronger.

_Had it been happening, even back then?_ Grimnir wondered. Was M'Alga beginning to break free of the ritual that had given him birth? Was he closer to becoming his own, monstrous self, rather than a mere tool of destruction?

"Which would make him infinitely more dangerous," the Arch-Mage realized with a jolt. "All the more reason why we need to stop him now!

"As for Varulf, I don't know if the Thalmor have anything on him. But … " And again Grimnir paused, as another memory from long ago surfaced in his head, of a number of small, leather-bound folios he'd obtained from one of the most secure places in all of Skyrim …

" … But they did have something on Ulfric."

* * *

His mind made up thus, Grimnir and the others found themselves on the docks of Windhelm only minutes later, approaching a ferry tied up at the pier furthest from them.

"Take us to Winterhold," Grimnir told the ferryman, in a voice that offered no chance for debate.

But the ferryman was resolute. "I can't do that," he said shortly. "There's nowhere to make berth over there."

"There's a shoreline just north of the town," Grimnir offered, "near the bridge that leads to the College. You can tie up there." He withdrew a fairly sizable purse of gold from his pocket, hoping it would be enough to sway the ferryman's opinion.

The Nord, however, scoffed at the offering. "You'd better have more coin than that to pay for this."

Brelyna tossed her own coin purse into the man's lap. "We're mages with the College dealing with a grave threat that could jeopardize the future of this entire province," she explained. "Come with us, and we'll see to it you're further compensated. And there may be more in it for you as well if you're willing to stay behind for a while."

The ferryman did not smile, but sighed after a moment of staring the dark elf in the eye. "I'll consider it," he huffed. "Now climb in so I can cast off."

There followed several minutes of silence as the ferry sailed along the delta of River Yorgrim. No one dared to speak, and Grimnir was sure he knew why. Onmund was avoiding his gaze, J'zargo was fiddling with his tail, and Brelyna was chewing her lip near to the point of blood flowing. Each of them had something to say—it was only a matter of who wanted to be first to say it.

Finally, as the ruins of Yngol Barrow slid past them, Brelyna spoke up. "All right, I can't hold it in anymore," she blurted out at Grimnir. "What happened back there? What was that … _thing_ I saw you do?"

Grimnir knew full well what he had done, but the how and the why yet remained beyond his comprehension, and he did not wish to relive the experience. He decided to tell the truth—or as much of it as he could.

" … I'm not sure," he sighed. "I remember feeling angry, more angry than I'd ever felt before … and … the next thing I knew, my hand was covered in those flames … I don't know how I did it."

It was impossible to tell if Brelyna looked convinced by his words or not. "Well, until you do," she said, her voice gentle but firm, not unlike Faralda's admonishing tone, "I'm not sure it's safe for you to confront M'Alga anymore."

_What?!_ Grimnir could not speak a word—he had not expected this at all.

"There's too much danger of collateral damage, loss of innocent lives," Brelyna went on, ignoring Grimnir's shocked look completely. "The College has lost enough reputation without its Arch-Mage starting to act like a miscast fire rune. When we return, I'm going to recommend to Tolfdir that you be confined to grounds for a time."

"_What?!_" This time, Grimnir had no trouble speaking his mind, although he was still very much in shock at what he was hearing.

The dark elf held up her hands in a placating gesture. "You'll still be Arch-Mage," she hastily added, "but until you learn to control whatever we saw with that dragon and at Windhelm, you won't be fighting any more fights. I'm sorry, Grimnir, but it's just too much of a risk to set aside."

"You're no match for M'Alga," croaked Grimnir, unable to accept this decision. "I'm all you have—I'm the only one who knows what it's like to—"

"No."

It was not Brelyna who spoke this time, or even Onmund—but J'zargo.

"Do not forget, my friend, that we have faced him too," soothed the Khajiit.

"You can count on us to do our best when we find M'Alga again," Onmund added. To the Arch-Mage's surprise, a smile that might be called confident had emerged on the Nord's face. It was the first such smile he'd seen Onmund wear since Grimnir had returned from Morthal, and it was this, more than anything, that finally calmed him down.

"We'll leave for Solitude as soon as we're able," Brelyna said gently, laying a reassuring hand on Grimnir's shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll make sure that M'Alga won't finish what he started there. Mark my words, he won't spill another drop of the Empire's blood in Skyrim."

And even though Grimnir knew the words were only meant to cheer him up—to inspire confidence in his friends—the Arch-Mage would rather face a hundred more like Bahlokmaar before saying anything to crush their hopes.

* * *

_Next chapter: Grimnir makes a breakthrough with help from an unlikely source. But time runs short—and M'Alga's next target will suddenly be the least of everyone's worries._

* * *

**A/N: Blame a late-night binge on H.R. Giger for what happened here. Poor Suvaris.**

**For the longest time, I'd initially planned for the Dragonborn to actually go and call down Odahviing while he was still in Windhelm, thereby leading Brelyna to call him out about how his obsession with M'Alga was driving him to disregard innocent lives around him—but I felt that was laying on the drama a bit much, and added very little to the story as a whole.**

**Ultimately, since the power Grimnir displayed here and in Chapter V will be expanded upon in future anyway, I decided it would be best to elaborate on this, and develop it just a little further. Those of you who've read far enough into ****_Second Seed_****—spoilers—should already have some clue as to the end results.**

**Thanks for reading! - K**


	10. IX

IX

_Winterhold_

The storm had blown itself out by late afternoon, and the sun's amber light streamed through the windows of the Hall of the Elements. Grimnir, however, had had little time to appreciate the change in scenery.

The moment the ferry had run aground, he had sprinted back up to the College and into the Arcanaeum, nearly bowling over Nirya as he rushed in. Before Urag had had a chance to reprimand him, Grimnir had seized a crate of books that the old Orc kept under his desk, books that the Arch-Mage had come across in the few years he'd been in Skyrim. For most people, these books held very little worth mentioning about—little more than journals in many cases—but to someone like Grimnir, they were considerably more than that. They were memories, whether for good or ill—recollections of the people he'd helped to save, as well as the people he'd been too late to reach.

When Urag had discovered this, he had offered to hold on to the mismatched tomes for Grimnir. No one was quite sure why; a particularly outlandish rumor had it that Urag, not being content with simply lording over a large library full of books, was planning to write one of his own. Another rumor went further still, and suggested that the Orc was writing a biography of Grimnir himself, to preserve the deeds he had done for all time. Of course, these were only rumors, and would likely remain so—Urag was certainly not telling, and no one wanted to risk the ire of the bad-tempered librarian by asking.

It took several moments of searching before Grimnir found what he was looking for: the small leather folio, hardly bigger than his palm. He undid the drawstring that bound it all together, and began to read.

A few moments later, some back corner of his mind alerted him to the fact that J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund had come up right beside him, only just now catching up to the Arch-Mage with how fast he had sprinted. All three of them were panting loudly and clutching at stitches.

Grimnir, however, paid it no mind: by then, he'd already found what he needed to know—in fact, the first two lines of the booklet had been enough for him to realize the truth.

Ulfric had been compromised from the beginning. The Stormcloaks had played right into the hands of the Dominion. It no longer mattered whether they seized victory or not, because the Empire—perhaps the last defense of Tamriel against the threat of Celeralmo and the Thalmor—was now hanging by a thread … a thread drawing closer and closer to the waiting axeblade of the unsuspecting Jarl.

"It all leads back to the Thalmor," Grimnir sighed ten minutes later, after discussing at length the contents of the damning book, and the circumstances in which he'd "recovered" it. "'Treat with whatever government rules Skyrim', indeed. They've had their fingers in this war the whole time. They might even have indirectly caused it. And they were intending to make sure it ended on their terms—and no one else's."

"And it explains why M'Alga didn't kill Ulfric when he had the chance," mused Onmund. "We already knew the Thalmor was rubbing elbows with the Black Worm. Ancano must have been privy to everything the Thalmor had on Ulfric—he shared the contents of that dossier with the whole cult, and helped plan out all of M'Alga's assaults."

J'zargo's whiskers hadn't drooped so far so quickly since he'd discovered the body of Savos Aren. Brelyna, however, looked confused.

"Why Varulf?" she asked, when Grimnir inquired about it. "You were right, back in Windhelm—the Harbinger's the only unknown in this entire affair. Are you sure you didn't uncover any other intelligence when you were in the Embassy?"

"Just a couple files on those two members of the Blades," Grimnir said. "No other dossiers—and nothing on this Varulf at all." He leaned back in his chair.

And right into the robes of Urag gro-Shub.

Any other man would instantly have leapt back up at such a speed that he would have overbalanced, chair and all, and toppled face first onto the bare stone floor. Grimnir, however, recovered from his shock with a superhuman effort in remarkable time, though his kneecaps had hit the bottom of the table in shock, and every thought in his head rang with curses that would have made the most foul-mouthed of sailors in Morrowind fear for their ears.

As he fought the pain, Grimnir's eyes roved everywhere, anywhere but the steely gaze of the Orc, and he cringed, waiting for the blow to fall. But instead he only heard a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, and the Orc moved past them with a single phrase, "Just keep reading."

It was some time before Grimnir's heart rate returned to normal, and the pain in his knees subsided. When they did, he leaned forward in his chair with a grunt, and voiced his mind—a plan was beginning to form in his head.

"If Varulf's the unknown in all this, as you say," he spoke to Brelyna, "then maybe I ought to know him a little bit better. Find out what I can about him, including anything he might have done to have the Thalmor resort to a necromantic cult in order to kill him off."

"I don't know if they'll be so willing to let you back in Windhelm anymore," Onmund said sadly.

"I wasn't planning on going there, anyway," replied Grimnir. "There are other people who might know. Closer people to here than Windhelm."

"Who do you have in mind?"

Grimnir was ready for this question. "Korir."

The three mages, evidently, were _not_ ready for the answer.

Brelyna looked much more uneasy than J'zargo or Brelyna, given how she had come extremely close to losing her temper with the Jarl of Winterhold in their last encounter. "I don't know," she said, a clear grimace on her face. "He seems less likely to tell you anything than Ulfric."

"I know—that's the hard part," grunted Grimnir. "If I don't approach this the right way, my best chance at finding information is gone."

He stood up. "I need to sleep on this," he sighed. "You three had better get on your way yourselves; Tolfdir could be done with the ferryman any minute downstairs. If the Emperor's truly M'Alga's next target—the real Emperor—then you should make way to Solitude with all haste."

The suspicion had been hinted at beforehand, but Brelyna had explained the reasoning behind it on their way back to the College. With Ulfric's declaration that the Stormcloaks were due to be concentrating their full force upon Haafingar and Solitude, all standing Imperial forces—Penitus Oculatus or otherwise—would be concentrated upon protecting the city, and not the Emperor. Furthermore, Brelyna had voiced her belief that since the Emperor had been switched with a double, as Commander Maro had assured them, then it stood to reason that the real Titus Mede II had been outside the city walls at the time—possibly even in another city.

"If he isn't in Solitude," she had said earlier, "then we'll find out where he's gone next. I don't know how"—after all, the odds of Commander Maro willingly disclosing such sensitive information to the same mages that had disobeyed his orders were less than zero—"but we'll find out."

Everyone stood up as one. "You'd better pack heavy," Grimnir told them. "If Tolfdir's lucky, you'll have passage to Solitude. If you're lucky, you'll find M'Alga before he finds the Emperor. I'm counting on you," he finished, feeling his voice breaking only slightly. Though the Arch-Mage still believed he was the only one with a fighting chance against M'Alga, he also believed that if anyone else had that same change, it was these three mages.

"And if we are unlucky?" J'zargo looked as though he didn't want to find out the answer.

The Arch-Mage stared him right in the eye. "Then I'd better hope _I'm_ lucky," he said. He did not elaborate any further. There was no need for him to do so.

Grimnir left the mages, then, intending to head upstairs to his new quarters and formulate a plan on how best to entreat Korir. Along the way, however, he ran into Tolfdir—and behind him, the ferryman called Gort.

"Ah, there you are, my boy," said the Master Wizard. An outsider listening in would never have believed the aged Nord had put Grimnir on probation—as gray a term as it was where he was concerned. "Gort here's just agreed to take on passengers and supplies to Solitude tonight. We had to do a bit of convincing—matters of provincial security and all that—but we eventually reached an agreement."

Grimnir heard the distinct jangling sound of gold coming from Gort's breast pocket, and wondered how much gold had figured into this agreement.

Tolfdir looked concerned. "Brelyna brought me up to speed on what happened in Windhelm," he said sadly, and Grimnir's stomach slipped a few inches, as though he'd missed a step going downstairs. "I'm not about to argue with the decision she made about you, lad—but I think we can both agree we need to step back and let cooler heads prevail."

"Even with M'Alga on the loose?" Grimnir asked.

"If you rush into a cave when you don't even know what's inside," Tolfdir said sagely, "the only thing you're assured is a great, big knock on the head. Take the night off, why don't you? Clear your mind. Maybe a good night's rest is what you need. Nine know you could use one."

Grimnir, stoic man that he could be, still folded at the genuine sympathy he was hearing in Tolfdir's voice—_almost_. "I think that might be best," he said, bringing a note of tired resignation into his voice, hoping that might be enough to appease the old Nord. "I've also been thinking, Master—this … _feeling_ I've been having. I wonder if maybe the Greybeards could help me understand what it all meant. I'd like to visit them—with your blessing, of course."

His eyes met the dual-colored gaze of Tolfdir for only a moment, and for a moment Grimnir wondered if maybe he'd seen through the ruse. Tolfdir was one of only a handful of people to whom he'd entrusted the secret of the Greybeards—their fifth and highest-ranked member, who lived atop the Throat of the World in near-total seclusion.

Then the eyes softened, and Tolfdir now looked at his Arch-Mage with an expression of what almost looked like pity. "Of course, my boy," he said soothingly. "Must be weighing on your mind something terribly, considering what you've been having to do of late."

Grimnir let loose a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Thank you, Tolfdir," he smiled at him. The gesture felt rather unfamiliar to him—as if he hadn't done it in weeks. "I think I'll have a drink at the Hearth before I retire. Tell Brelyna and the others I send them my best wishes tonight."

"Certainly," Tolfdir said. "I was actually on my way to see Miss Maryon myself. Drevis just sent in a letter from Tel Mithryn in Solstheim. I thought she'd be interested in reading it. I'll pass your words along."

Grimnir bowed low, and made for the stairs as Tolfdir entered the Arcanaeum, secretly grateful that the Master Wizard hadn't noticed the pained expression on his face. Grimnir hated lying to someone that he considered a friend, and he made a mental note to apologize for his actions later on.

_But this is something I have to do_, he thought as he left the Hall of the Elements. _I hope he'll be able to understand that soon enough_.

* * *

_On the banks of River Hjaal_

The sun had set behind Folgunthur tomb by the time M'Alga had arrived here.

Upon his return, the monster had taken up position by the eastern shore of River Hjaal, and concentrated as much as he could upon the docks opposite him. The piers were bursting with activity; ships bearing the diamond of the Empire on their sails were being loaded with cargo. Soldiers—both city guard and Imperial security—were patrolling the docks with such frequency that M'Alga knew he would never be able to infiltrate his destination unseen—powers of invisibility or not.

And then there was the biggest ship of all—anchored not far from where he crouched, just visible past the stone arch of Solitude that he'd climbed only days ago. Yet the size of the vessel—considerable as it was—still understated just how important its cargo was. M'Alga could guess from the botched attempt on the city's Jarl just what—or rather who—that cargo might be, and any other night, he would have assumed that his mission involved preventing said cargo from ever reaching its destination.

But for the first time, M'Alga's mind was not on his mission.

Why had _he_ chosen to interfere then, of all times? He had been so close to killing him in Windhelm, only to be rebuffed by the all-powerful will of his master—and then, as if the unexpected action wasn't enough, his control over the body he'd been given had left him for a time, and it had taken every last ounce of M'Alga's willpower to attempt to retain control.

He had failed.

And now M'Alga was here, eyes trained—neither blinking nor moving an inch—from the bustling docks across the delta, led like a dog on a leash by a force he could not fully comprehend. He wondered idly if this was punishment for his previous failures—for his inability to kill the people he'd been assigned to.

The Dragonborn had proven to be especially persistent as well—all the more reason why _he_ wanted him dead. Someone that powerful was eventually going to ruin the grand scheme that had been set into motion if he was left unchecked for too long. And yet his master had pulled him away, there, not even bothering to give M'Alga the chance to test his power against the most worthy opponent imaginable.

And it was only recently that he had been able to grasp at the logic behind the decision.

_Grasp_ being the operative term, of course—the plans of M'Alga's master were truly known to only him alone. M'Alga was grateful enough that he had been created to carry out this plan; the particulars of it mattered little to him. But the fact that the Dragonborn had been spared told M'Alga all he needed to know.

_Not yet_, a voice whispered in his head, as if in response to his thoughts, and M'Alga could not resist a snort of agitation. He continued to stare at the Solitude docks, as the sun sang further still below the horizon, and the light of the first stars began to illuminate the sky. He blinked once, and his vision became suffused in a pale, bluish-white glare; the Khajiit were well-adopted for the night, and their eyesight was far superior to most mortal beings in conditions like these. The Black Worm had obviously thought such powers would serve M'Alga well, and he gave thanks to his master for the gift.

As the minutes turned into hours, M'Alga's thoughts slowly went back to the events in Solitude, and how the Dragonborn had seemingly been alerted to his presence with almost no prior warning. He had heard the word being passed around when he had infiltrated Windhelm—disguised within the unfortunate shell of the Dunmer woman who had quite literally run into him: a mysterious assassin, who had poisoned a double of the Emperor almost at the same exact time as his assault on the Blue Palace. Given the importance of his mission, he had not dwelled on it at the time.

But now, at a time where he had more free time to think, he was beginning to get the idea that he had not, in fact, been betrayed from within. The assassin's presence there had merely been coincidence—but the timing of the event still felt far from it; M'Alga wondered if perhaps his master had foreknowledge of the double's demise, even here—down to the minute and the method—and used the man's death to better increase his plans' chances of success.

_Everything is known to him_, he thought.

At that moment, some sixth sense went off in M'Alga's head. He could not quite pinpoint why, but he had learned to trust his intuition even in his brief existence; there was only one reason why he would suddenly have this strange feeling.

_Someone was coming_.

Immediately he took action, the iridescence of his scales morphing like ripples on the River Hjaal, camouflaging him perfectly against the rocks that protected Folgunthur. At the same time, M'Alga finally moved for the first time in hours, slowly but surely drawing away from his vantage point, around the far side of the tomb—and, he presumed, to the great ship anchored off the coast.

His eyes had just barely drifted there when he saw it—a small boat, barely a rowboat, carrying what looked like four people and several sacks, entering the delta from the north, against the current. A connection between this and the sixth sense he'd felt suddenly wormed into M'Alga's mind, and he turned his enhanced vision onto the occupants of the vessel—

And in a rare expression of surprise, M'Alga's mouth fell open as he saw the exact same three mages—the dark elf, the Nord, and the cat—that always accompanied the Dragonborn everywhere he seemed to go, from the moment of M'Alga's birth in the darkness of Mzurkunch to his flight from Windhelm.

_But the Dragonborn was not with them_.

M'Alga could not believe the sudden good fortune that had graced him. If the Dragonborn was not with these mages tonight, then he might not come at all. Perhaps he trusted his companions' ability to match his power.

He smirked. _He would be sorely mistaken_. And if the Dragonborn did decide to come … then he would be far too late.

M'Alga kept himself out of sight as the boat silently slipped by, his position undetected. He knew now where he had to go—there was no more time to lose. But just as the monster's mind had been made up, the sixth sense went off again—this time with such urgency that M'Alga actually clapped a broad palm to his temple, grimacing in pain.

And then he felt his head turn, against his will, back to the docks he'd been surveying. M'Alga did not need a Khajiit's enhanced senses to make sense of what was happening over there. But he knew simply from the sight he was seeing that time was much shorter than he would have believed.

He had to act _now_.

And this time, as he slowly made his way towards the edge of the water—moving as slowly as possible despite all his camouflage, not daring to take chances in being discovered—M'Alga felt a sense of dreaded finality about the task he had to do. If he failed—if he was too late—then there would be no more. His existence would no longer have purpose to it—he would be an empty shell.

_Expendable_.

_No_. M'Alga knew he was much more valuable than that—much too valuable for his master to simply discard. And right here, tonight, he was going to prove it to him.

And so, with nary so much as a ripple, the monster's bulk slid into the water, and he swam toward his destination …

* * *

_Meanwhile_

Further north, Brelyna—who had, up to this point, been engrossed in the contents of the letter that Tolfdir had given her earlier today—groaned when she saw the massive ship that almost completely blocked off the inlet ahead. She groaned louder still when it occurred to her just who that ship might belong to.

She turned to Gort. "Are you going to have a problem getting us past that ship?" she asked, pointing to Onmund and J'zargo in the back. All of them had been snoring soundly for most of the voyage from Winterhold; Brelyna had woken up an hour ago, and had not been able to sleep on account of her uneasiness. She hoped the meager rest she had would be enough for her to fight on.

"You should know that if we're identified," she added to the ferryman, "that it's going to slow us down immeasurably, whether they recognize us or not."

Gort grunted. "They know me well enough to know my way of life," he said. "Just act natural and don't draw attention to yourselves. As far as they're concerned, I've got safe passage through the delta."

Brelyna silently nodded her understanding, and moved to wake her companions. They had an Emperor to save.

* * *

_East Empire Company Warehouse_

Commander Maro set down the crate of supplies to wipe his brow. "Has Arcturus reported in?" he asked the Penitus Oculatus agent who'd been assisting him, as he moved to pick up the heavy wooden case for the fifth time tonight.

"No, sir," the Imperial responded. "None of his task force has returned, either." A shocked expression suddenly lit his face. "You don't think—!"

"I don't." Maro's voice, even with all the man behind it had been through, was still as stern as ever. "I have faith in his success. It's a long way to the Pine Forest. I've given him several days of leeway to get there and back in time to sail back to Cyrodiil. And even if they miss that deadline, Falkreath is close enough to the border that they could still very well beat us back to the Imperial City."

He heaved a sigh as the two men continued to transport the crate—he felt taxed in both mind and body. Part of the reason why they'd had to carry so much cargo to the Emperor's vessel today was that the ship would be sailing the long way back to Cyrodiil—all the way along the northern coastline of Tamriel, skirting the edge of the Sea of Ghosts, then alongside the eastern part of Morrowind—or what Vvardenfell had left of it—then to the southernmost reaches of Black Marsh, and finally up the Niben, straight to the Imperial City.

It was a long voyage, and one that Maro was not looking forward to take, for multiple reasons. He wished he'd been among the chosen tasked to journey to Falkreath, assisting Captain Arcturus in meting out Imperial justice. At least then, he'd be afforded the leisure of a peaceful trip back to Cyrodiil—not some rolling, yawing ship whose only real comforts were privy to the Emperor alone.

Finally, they reached the last boat, and set the heavy crate inside with a thump. "I think that's just about everything here," said Maro with a sigh, fully aware of the double meaning of his words.

The agent, too, seemed to notice. "And the outpost at Dragon Bridge, sir?" he asked.

"It'll be shuttered by the end of the month," replied Maro, feeling another wrenching sensation in his gut.

Thankfully, the soldier did not seem to notice anything this time. "Very good, sir," he nodded. "And you'll be returning to … " His voice faltered here, apparently unsure of what to say next. "Well, if you don't mind me asking, sir … where exactly _will_ you be going now?"

Maro sighed—that was the question he'd been dreading to hear, and dreading further still to answer. "Now that's an excellent question," he muttered, half to himself, "an excellent question, indeed."

He turned his gaze out to sea, towards the Katariah, swarmed with boats and barges like a mother pig nursing her young. He did not want to meet the young agent's eyes.

"Truth is," he said, "as soon as the Emperor sets sail, I'm resigning my position." He let out his biggest sigh yet—there it was. The decision had not been as swift as it felt; over the past few days since the fiasco that had unraveled in Solitude, Maro had grown to believe he was unable to meet the same standards he himself had set for his own men. The death of his son had weighed horribly on him, and that weight only grew heavier by the day.

If he could not protect his own son, Maro thought, than what good was he to protect his Emperor—never mind the rest of his people?

"Oh. I see." The agent's tone was far more sympathetic now, and he regarded Maro with a sad expression as he grasped for something to say. "Well, then … let me just say that … it's been an honor serving under you, Commander."

"The honor has been mine," Maro said—_and all the fallout that came with it_, he added in his mind.

He clapped a hand on the agent's uniform. "You should be proud of what we've accomplished here, soldier. The Dark Brotherhood is no more. And the Emperor—_finally_—is safe." _At least we can be assured of that_, he thought.

The agent saluted. "Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir." He turned on his heel.

Maro waited an entire minute after he was sure that the agent had left the docks, before he finally spoke.

"I might as well serve the Elder Council my head on a silver platter," he grumbled to himself, as he stared out at the dark form of the ship in the distance. By morning tomorrow, that ship would be halfway to Cyrodiil, just as Maro would be, and the commander could breathe a little easier then—only a little.

For Maro knew that no matter how this played out, his military career had been doomed from the moment the Emperor's double had been slain, and the perpetrator behind the deed had escaped undetected. Too many mistakes had been made, and the situation in the Blue Palace had been completely unanticipated. Maro was sorry that he had ever cut the deal he had with that assassin—but he was not at all sorry for reneging on their agreement; the bitch had ordered her son's death, for Mara's sake!

Maro knew his time with the Penitus Oculatus was over, but his thirst for retribution was not bound by mere military obligation. Before the end of his days, he would make sure that every last one of those twisted assassins had paid with blood for what they had done to Gaius. He only hoped that he would be the one to deliver the final blow himself.

Maro frowned suddenly—the hairs on the back of his neck were rising. He hadn't heard any footfalls or rustlings of metal against leather.

But somehow, he knew he was not alone.

The commander slowly turned around; expecting to see one of his soldiers standing at attention, ready to receive what could possibly be his final order …

And his face went deathly white.

"By the gods … you!" he could only stammer, as the shadow advanced on him, never speaking a word. "But … it can't be … you're _dead!_ You … you … "

They were the last words he spoke in his life. Whatever he'd planned on saying next was drowned out by a hundred thoughts converged in his mind into one, shining, awful point of clarity as he understood just who—_what_—was standing right before his eyes.

_Death incarnate._

And then—almost unbidden from deep inside him—a boiling, wordless roar of primal rage, as Maro drew his sword and charged at the impossible sight, every last fiber of his being suddenly hellbent on running the demon through, and ending the threat it posed once and for all—

Then the shadow flickered like black fire, and Maro's blade hit nothing but air. The commander nearly unbalanced as he rushed straight through where the apparition—was_ it an illusion?_ Maro thought; _those eyes had looked so_ real!—had been.

Through the haze of rage, it occurred to Maro that a passing guard could possibly have seen him on the edge of the pier, and was even now running to his aid, wondering why they heard him shout just now.

The commander turned, expecting to see a fellow agent coming to assist him—he knew he had to warn them—

But the words died in his throat—and Maro himself died not long after; a black arrow had filled his half-open mouth, piercing through flesh and spine almost out of nowhere like a shadow of lightning. The sword clanged from his lifeless hand as his body toppled into the water …

* * *

The source of the arrow had not waited around to see if the shot had been fatal, and had stayed around just long enough to fire just the one bolt before moving on to her final destination. It was all she needed; the illusion spell she had cast earlier —much older and more potent than the College could ever hope to teach—had provided more than enough of a distraction to ensure a killing blow. Vengeance had indeed been sweet, but it was not enough; the assassin had not come for Maro alone, after all.

Even so, she could not resist a snort of annoyance. From the moment she had left the blasted ruins of the only home she had ever known, the assassin had fantasized a more _personal_ method of demise for the destruction that had been wrought by this one man—she could almost hear the newly acquired dagger hissing against her hip as she continued to sprint northwards. The blade was crying for blood, as if the spirit of its previous owner, not yet consumed by the clutches of the Void, yet wished to claim the blood and soul of Commander Maro.

But the assassin knew there was more than one way to destroy a man's soul. Killing its vessel of flesh was the surest way to do so, yes, but such deaths had a propensity to spread among the public at large, and were thus prone to making the deceased a martyr. Such a thing had nearly happened with the Vici woman, and would almost certainly happen again over the course of a few days. Maro, however, would not be allowed such an end.

For when put alongside the demise of another, more recognizable figure, his death would be largely forgotten by the masses as word spread like wildfire. In the eyes of the assassin, such an act was _true_ death: complete cessation of existence—not only in flesh and blood, but also in the hearts and minds of mortal beings. Maro, who no doubt had dreamed of being a self-proclaimed _hero_ for the part he had played, would thus become a mere footnote instead, nothing more than an afterthought in this larger performance—a performance whose second act had yet to begin.

As the assassin continued to sprint down the path, unseen by the same soldiers who thought her dead, she knew that her act of revenge had had its consequences. Maro, foolish as he had been to leave himself open and alone, had also taken care to keep himself in plain sight of the great ship at all times. Even as she turned to the vessel, she could see tiny shapes of soldiers running about, preparing the ship for departure—they had seen what had happened, though not _why_, but they had seen enough.

She would have cursed at this if she were physically able to do so. But now was not the time for these things; though it left a bitter taste in her mouth, the assassin had correctly surmised that dispatching Commander Maro would alert the garrison on board the _Katariah_. Swimming her way there was no longer a possibility—though it gave her an element of surprise (and frankly, who would have thought of infiltrating the ship through the _anchor_, of all things?) it would slow her down immensely, and waste the one chance she had of pulling this mission off once and for all.

So it was that she had chosen an alternative—and so it was she had now stopped sprinting, and now climbed up an outcropping of rock barely a ship's length from the massive vessel in front of her.

The assassin tested the wind, and found it favorable—a strong breeze from the northwest. Quickly, before the wind decided to shift, she readied her crossbow once more, and two bolts that she'd put together for a very particular purpose. One she fired point-blank into the rock; the ebony missile dug into the rock with little resistance.

The second was nocked soon after, and as the assassin judged the breeze and the height of the next shot she would take, her mind whispered a dark prayer, knowing full well that from here on in, there was truly no turning back. If she succeeded, then she might yet live to see her earthly reward. If she failed here, at this most crucial point …

_Dread Father, guide my hand._

_Night Mother, guide my blade …_

* * *

_Meanwhile_

On the other side of the stone arch, the lookout on the _Katariah_ had also seen the scene unfolding before his eyes from the crow's nest of the ship, and felt his mouth go dry at the sight.

In a moment of time that felt too long to be measured, the Imperial realized the nature of his mission had changed as significantly as it could possibly be, and that he had suddenly been thrust into what was certainly a life-or-death decision—if not for his career, then for his life.

But gradually, the years of military training came back to him; and the lookout knew he had to act fast.

And so—as quickly as his uniform would let him—the Penitus Oculatus agent descended the rigging, and made his way below decks to Captain Avidius' cabin, where he and Lieutenant Salvarus were making final checks on the ship's manifest they would be sending back after the final shipment of supplies was safely delivered onto the vessel.

The lookout saluted, and wasted no time in addressing the pair of officers. "Sorry to bother you, sirs. There's been a situation on the pier." He took a breath. "The Commander has been compromised."

Captain Avidius, a rare Redguard among the ranks of the Penitus Oculatus, immediately paled as the meaning of what the lookout had just reported sank in. "Signal the lighthouse," he said hoarsely, at no one in particular. "Prepare to cut and run!"

Salvarus was aghast, and the lookout knew why: to _cut and run_ involved a very risky escape procedure where lashings of sails would be cut—and in far more extreme circumstances, an entire anchor. The theory behind it was that normal preparation time would take too long for a ship to make sail in dire emergencies; with a cut and run, that time would be reduced significantly—though the lookout was fervently hoping there wouldn't be any bad storms between here and Cyrodiil.

Salvarus, too, looked ready to question the judgment of his Captain, but the Redguard's steely gaze brooked no argument. "You heard me!" he barked. "Get us as far away from the coast as you can! And the rest of you, protect the Emperor with your lives!"

"Aye, sir!" the lieutenant responded, and he immediately left the cabin, barking orders to the crew.

The lookout, sensing he ought to return to his post as well, followed Salvarus topside and astern while the lieutenant grabbed a lantern. This he waved to the lighthouse to and fro in what the lookout hoped would be a signal of help. He looked to the lighthouse, hoping that the old Khajiit in charge would already be tending to the fires there, and would see the lantern being waved.

The helmsman ran up to them. "We've no chance with this wind from astern, sir," he huffed. "The second we cut loose, we'd have to turn hard a-port just to avoid grounding the ship."

The lookout swore as he realized where the wind was coming from—north and west; the worst possible direction it could be blowing right now. A cut and run would only send them further up the inlet, and backing the sails would be impossible where they'd dropped anchor.

In other words, they were trapped.

No sooner had the lookout come to this conclusion that he felt something rush past his neck—as if a very large bug had flown right past it. The helmsman coughed slightly—just loud enough for the lookout to turn towards him—before he was thrown backward by the force of the arrow that had pierced his throat dead center.

A full second passed before the lookout realized the meaning of the noise right behind his neck, and what had happened here. He stumbled backward in horror—and his hand suddenly caught on a rope that had not been there a second ago: a thin length of rough black cord, hardly thicker around than his little finger.

_Where did that come from?!_

The rope stretched between the railings of the ship, from port to starboard—_no_, thought the lookout as his eyes traveled to portside, where the helmsman had fallen … to the arrow currently lodged in his shipmate's gizzard.

Salvarus saw it too, and for a single, dangerous moment his face was drained of all color. Then, soldier that he was, he sprang into action.

"To arms! To arms!" he cried, drawing out his sword. "The ship is being boarded!"

The lookout, among all other men on board, was galvanized into action. He drew his own sword, and, figuring that the prospective intruder wouldn't be able to pose much of a threat if his one way on board was this thin little cord, swung the blade downward with all his might—

—only for the blade to bounce off the rope, and clatter to the deck before the thunderstruck lookout.

_What?!_

But even as he recovered from the shock, he saw that the rope had not been undamaged; whatever the black substance that covered it was, it had chipped at the point of impact, and a sliver of silvery white thread was visible through the crack. The lookout grinned—another few hacks ought to finish the rope off for good.

He picked up his blade from the deck—and then promptly dropped it again as a truly unexpected noise reached his ears—a low, primal roar that brought flashbacks of his history lessons on the Oblivion Crisis to the lookout, and the monstrous creatures that had invaded Tamriel more than two hundred years ago.

Salvarus was horrified. "What in the name of the Eight was _that?!_"

Then the screaming started, and both men knew.

_It was already on board_.

* * *

At that moment, less than half a mile away, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo had leapt out of the ferry before Gort had even lashed his craft to the dock. The indignant face on the Nord did not last long, however; the College had paid him nearly a month's worth of his usual wages to take his passengers this far, and so he pushed off back to Windhelm within a moment of their departure.

"We'll head to Castle Dour first," Brelyna told them as their boots pounded on the rough wood up the wharf. "If Tullius or Maro isn't there, we'll go to Elisif at the Blue Palace."

"Never mind that they banned us from the city limits," Onmund panted, swearing as his aching legs twinged from running after sitting down in a cramped boat for so long.

"Then we'll just have a guard run them a message," said Brelyna. Her eyes then looked passed Onmund, and she skidded to a halt.

Where was J'zargo?

Thankfully, she had Onmund hadn't gone very far, and a quick backtrack found the wayward Khajiit in a few moments' time. J'zargo remained standing on the dock, not far from where Gort had made berth. His head was tilted downwards, his attention apparently focused on something on the docks … or under it.

Only a few feet below the floorboards of the docks, a uniformed body bobbed facedown in the swells—already bluish-gray and beginning to bloat from the water, but otherwise apparently unmarked. Brelyna had no trouble recognizing the neat black hair, cropped right at the neck, of the unfortunate soldier.

_Maro_.

"He cannot have died more than an hour ago," J'zargo murmured, refusing to tear his eyes from the body. The bodies of drowned men could change completely over time, as they lay in the water; Brelyna had seen faces and bodies of people that had been unrecognizably changed within a few hours' time.

But Brelyna had no eyes for the body, and there was no time to convey sympathies to the man she had shouted down only a few days ago. Her gaze slowly drifted from the slain Imperial, then down the inlet and under Solitude … and, finally, to the great ship anchored off the coast.

The Dunmer felt her heart sink as the answer came to her. "Oh, no."

Commander Maro was dead—and the Emperor's life was now in greater danger than they had believed. Brelyna knew she had to make a decision, and fast.

And so she did.

She ran for a boat on the edge of the docks, bulling aside a few Imperial soldiers who apparently were oblivious to the fact that one of their own had been slain so near to them. "Out of the way!" she shouted at them. "We need to commandeer a vessel right now! College business!"

The biggest of the guards drew himself to his full height, and stared down through his faceless helm at the dark elf, his chest puffed to its fullest extent. "We don't answer to your College, elf. Orders from Commander Maro."

Brelyna refused to back down. "Commander Maro is _dead_," she hissed in his face, ignoring the cries of shock that had risen from the guard's companions. "He died right behind me—and as far as I can tell, he died on _your_ watch. If any of you want to save your military career, you will give us what we need to catch what killed him, and you're going to do it _now!_"

The soldiers behind the guard looked cowed by the diatribe. That was the impact Brelyna had been looking for. No need to mention the Emperor, just threaten the soldiers with reprisal from a superior officer, be it General Tullius or Jarl Elisif—neither of whom, Brelyna was sure, responded well to excuses and "following orders".

The guard pulled away, and pointed a mailed finger at his subordinates. "You and you, find a boat. Jump to it!" he barked.

Neither of them needed telling twice.

* * *

Three minutes later, the trio was rowing full speed towards the _Katariah_ in a two-man fishing boat that looked older than Brelyna. The Dunmer found herself wishing Tolfdir taught levitation spells to his more advanced students. At least the boat didn't leak—that was probably the only thing the guards checked when they'd first hauled the boat out to them, now that Brelyna thought of it.

The shadow of Solitude passed over them, and for a time, the boat and everyone inside it was shrouded in total darkness. "We'll signal the ship as soon as we're clear of the arch," Brelyna grunted alongside Onmund as she maneuvered her oar. "From there, we'll ask to see the captain, and hopefully, he'll take us to guard the Emperor."

"That may no longer be a possibility." J'zargo had been keeping a keen eye on the Katariah, and the Khajiit had suddenly gone rigid, whiskers and all. "Look!"

Brelyna turned around, and felt her heart sink yet again. Lights were flickering on the ship—too bright to be torchlights or lanterns, and far too spread out to give off that much illumination over such a large vessel. There was only one thing it could mean.

_The _Katariah_ was on fire_.

Onmund watched the scene with growing apprehension. "Something tells me no one's going to come pick us up," he muttered.

"So how do we get on?" asked Brelyna.

J'zargo pointed a claw to the aft of the ship. "The anchors," he said. "The ship has not yet made sail, nor has it raised their anchor, or else it would be free of the delta by now. We will find the dropped anchor, yes—then, if we are lucky, we will climb its chain into the ship, and assist the sailors in controlling the fire from there."

It was an outlandish plan if Brelyna had ever heard one, and Onmund's look of disbelief seemed to say the same thing. But it was the only plan they had—the sailors on board would almost certainly be too occupied with the fire—and the security of their royal passenger—to focus on a trio of incoming mages.

The starboard side of the _Katariah's_ stern was closer to them, but a huff from J'zargo told them that finding a way in from there was no good before they even saw the anchor hanging from the cathead there. And that wasn't all—as they drew closer to the ship, the mages could hear shouts from sailors and clangs of metal. Once or twice, there was a splash, as if someone had been thrown into the water, but since they had not seen anyone fall from the starboard side, none of them could be sure.

"Portside," J'zargo hissed suddenly. "The anchor!"

Brelyna's heart rose as she saw the lowered anchor, the heavy links that supported it hopefully able to provide them a safe entry inside—and then she saw the paneling around it, and clenched her teeth in anger. The wood had been splintered almost everywhere around it, and bent inwards at various angles … as if some large creature had forced its way inside, through an opening far too small for its body ...

* * *

Climbing the anchor chain was very slow work; the thick links were smooth with seawater and grease. But eventually, the three mages finally hauled themselves into the Katariah's cargo hold, wringing out their robes and wiping grime onto the smooth wooden floors.

"We need to get topside, and fast," Brelyna whispered. "If you see _any_ movement, see that it doesn't move again. Nobody say anything unless it's important—save what little breath you have for when you're not walking into a burning ship."

"What if it's a soldier that moves?" wondered Onmund.

"M'Alga's already on board," replied Brelyna, her face grim as she remembered how simply the hull had been breached by such powerful strength. "I hate to say it … but I think their fate's already sealed, one way or the other."

Even Onmund didn't bother to argue with the reply, and so they crept out of the hold.

They saw the first bodies at the door: a bearded sailor in plainclothes, and a younger man in a Penitus Oculatus uniform. Both bodies had been savagely mangled, and blood stained the threshold in thick spurts.

Brelyna dipped a finger in the scarlet liquid. "Still warm," she murmured. "We might have some hope yet." Though with the ship already beginning to burn, she thought, that hope was rapidly approaching nil, and fast.

They moved on.

More bodies awaited them as they entered the galley, and passed a blacksmith's anvil—some of the plates were still piping hot, along with the food, even as fresh blood from the wounds of slain crewmen covered the dishes. Blood hissed in the embers of the dying forge off to their left, creating an acrid smell that lingered throughout the ship.

The roar of a burgeoning inferno could be heard outside, and Brelyna stopped outside a door that she hoped would lead them to the outside. "Onmund, gather as much frost magic as you can," said Brelyna. "We've got to put out that fire on the top deck. Hopefully it hasn't spread to any lifeboats yet."

She saw smoke beginning to curl under the threshold. "J'zargo, blast down this door on my signal."

As the Khajiit charged an incineration spell, Brelyna began to gather as much lightning magic as she could—M'Alga's weakness, she remembered Grimnir saying; fire and frost were much less affective because of the Nordic, Breton, and Dunmer blood he possessed. If the monster was on that deck, she needed to be prepared to blast him the instant she saw his nine-foot-tall form.

"Now!" she hissed, and J'zargo fired.

The door, lock and all, was blown off its hinges with a deafening BANG, and the three mages streamed through the doorway before it had toppled to the floor—and they stared, wild-eyed and appalled, at the scene that greeted them.

* * *

What had once been a simple enough fire had grown into a towering inferno. Over half of the stern was ablaze, and flames were beginning to lick at the masts and rigging. Charred and bloodied bodies—whole and otherwise—were strewn all over, and provided grisly, distorted additions to the hellish landscape. The stink of blood, smoke, and burnt flesh was everywhere.

But the mages only had eyes for what was going on in the exact center of the conflagration.

M'Alga was there, on the stern of the ship, looking more monstrous than ever as the shadows morphed over his muscled bulk—but M'Alga wasn't alone. Dashing all around him—and indeed, amazingly enough, appearing to _fight M'Alga one-on-one_—was another, far smaller figure; Brelyna thought she might be a young woman, but the distance and the flames made it impossible to discern anything more than this. Neither of them seemed to have noticed that the mages were even here. That was just as well for Brelyna—it would give them time to slow down the fiery onslaught.

"Onmund!" she called out, her voice nearly drowned out by the inferno. "Get the fire under control!"

The Nord and his frost magic did his best to obey, but the task was more daunting than Brelyna had believed; even as an ice storm from Onmund cooled one corner of the blaze, the flames only seemed to grow higher and hotter. J'zargo had clambered up a flight of stairs near the door where the mages had just emerged, and now peppered M'Alga with firebolts—but again, they seemed to do nothing; the mage-fire might as well have been swallowed up by the blaze.

And still, M'Alga and the unknown woman continued to fight. The woman was exceptionally acrobatic—every time the monster threw a punch, she flipped out of the way, and every time a spell was sent in her direction, she ducked and rolled behind barrels, crates, anything that provided a moment's worth of cover before M'Alga's lightning blasted it to blackened splinters.

Several members of the Penitus Oculatus yet remained around them, and continued to fight the woman in spite of the intense heat that had to be searing their skin right now. Then the woman sliced at them with a dagger as they attempted to run her through—and one of them seemed to dissolve into dust: a thrall, Brelyna knew. It seemed M'Alga had reanimated what members of the crew had not been burned in the blaze, but the woman was skilled with a blade; if they had touched her at all, she wasn't showing any sign of a wound.

M'Alga and the woman were moving so quickly, and with so much energy, that trying to find a target became impossible; even Brelyna's mind couldn't hope to think fast enough to target M'Alga and not risk hitting anyone else. She decided to turn her mind to an equally important task.

"J'zargo," she said to the Khajiit, "find as much water and sand as you can. A ship this big has to have plenty of ways to deal with fire. We're going to need more than magic to put out this blaze. Onmund!"

The apprentice, thankfully, heard her over the noise despite being on the other side of the stern. "You and I will handle M'Alga," Brelyna told him. "Use your frost magic to restrain both him and that woman." She set her jaw. "I'll focus on killing M'Alga myself."

"Got it!" Onmund downed a number of potions in blue bottles to bolster his magicka, and at a signal from Brelyna, he began to let fly with a number of ice storms, larger and more powerful than before. The effect was immediate; the fires were not immediately extinguished, but the height of the flames was significantly reduced, enough for Brelyna's eyes to take in more detail on the feisty woman fighting M'Alga.

She saw the red-and-black leather that hugged every curve of her body like a glove, even as she continued to duck and weave about M'Alga's massive fists; she noted the many pouches strapped to her figure, filled with Azura-only-knew what kinds of implements—

Then the woman turned around, and Brelyna saw the eyes of the woman … and she gasped at the flash of skull-white skin—and below it, just above a red cloth that hid the woman's mouth, the pitch-black darkness of those all-too-familiar eyes seemed to suck in all the light of the fire, boring into the Dunmer's own gaze with a terrible, dawning expression—

And Brelyna's hands erupted with lightning.

Up until that point, she had told Onmund to restrain the two combatants with ice magic for a reason—M'Alga would be easier for her to score a hit on with her lightning, and the woman could be taken for questioning as to how she knew about M'Alga, and why she would choose to fight him one-on-one. But that was before she had recognized the eyes of the same woman she had seen enter the Emperor's dining room, with the Potage le Magnifique that Brelyna had since suspected been the last, poisoned meal of the unfortunate body double … now, Brelyna cared nothing for interrogation. This woman was a dangerous assassin. Letting her live would be just as egregious a mistake as letting M'Alga live. Both of them needed to face justice for what they had done.

The instant of distraction, however, was all M'Alga needed. The monster moved like lightning, dodging Brelyna's attack effortlessly, and swatting the nameless assassin off the stern with a bellowing growl. Somehow—incredibly—the blow had not been fatal; even as she was hurled away, the woman twirled in midair like some exotic dancer, narrowly missing crashing into one of the masts as she did so, and landed in a three-point position amidships, glaring at M'Alga all the while with unmistakable hatred.

Whether by his regenerative powers, or just blind luck, M'Alga was unhurt by the blaze, though every inch of his scaly skin was blackened from the heat, making him look like some terrifying shadow come to life, and he was breathing as if he'd just run a cross-country race. He leapt from the stern, landing with a _crunch_ between Onmund, Brelyna, and the woman he seemed so intent on killing.

"_You try my patience, all of you,_" he growled, casting a withering look and a lightning bolt at the three mages—the latter of which Brelyna just barely managed to deflect with a ward. "_Does the Dragonborn believe me beneath his notice, that he would have his wayward children fight his own battles?_" He spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the deck. "_How very noble of _him," he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "_And as for_ you."

He angled his ugly head to the assassin, who had drawn a long, curved dagger, and brandished it at the monster. "_I know not how you came to know of me, or how to provide such an _interesting_ battle … but your journey here was _folly_. If you had any sense at all, you would have accepted your demise, and let the hounds of the Emperor devour you to the bones with the last of your kind._"

The woman's dark eyes narrowed, and a horrible gurgling noise came from under the cloth that covered her mouth. Brelyna wondered if the woman had been wounded somehow in the attack after all, but she could not see any bloodstains on her leather outfit.

M'Alga, either way, did not seem to care. "_None of you should have come here at all,_" he said, looking round at all of them. "_Especially you, mages. I thought you would have learned, time and again, that the only reason you have lived to see another day to fight me was because of your precious Dragonborn_."

"The Dragonborn has faith in us!" Onmund shouted from the stern. More ice storms had weakened the fire enough to where he could actually be heard from where Brelyna was standing. "He wouldn't have sent us here if he didn't know we could kill you tonight, M'Alga!"

M'Alga's reptilian head split in an ugly grin, putting most of his tusklike teeth on full display. "_Your words are brave, Nord," he snarled, "but even from where I stand, I can taste the foolishness in your bravery. I will say this as simply as I can, that I might save you further trouble: None of you has what it takes to kill me—and you know it, do you not? Deep inside the coldest reaches of your mind, you know that you have been led to your deaths tonight._" He spat again. "_The Dragonborn will regret underestimating the scope of my powers so _recklessly_._"

Onmund remained defiant. As if Azura herself was speaking for her, Brelyna felt the words float up in her throat, almost against her will. "The Dragonborn did not send us here," she said, loudly and clearly like a bell. "I did! It was my idea to come here, and my idea to stop you from murdering the Emperor!"

The woman shifted in her position slightly, but Brelyna's attention was totally focused on M'Alga, and so she did not notice. "Even now, our Arch-Mage is preparing to do what he can to destroy you for good!" she screamed, hopeful in her heart that Grimnir was doing just that, making use of every scrap of parchment in the Arcanaeum to research whatever weaknesses this lizard-thing possessed.

But M'Alga, however, did not appear cowed by her avowal. In fact, he appeared almost resentful, and a noticeable slump could be seen to his frame now. "_Is that so?_" he asked. "That no longer matters to me now. It is too little, too late."

His head turned away from them, and focused intently on a point to the south of them. "_My master calls for me, now,_" he said, his voice softer now than Brelyna had ever heard it before. "_He knows everything that has happened here … even from so far away. He knows my work is done._"

And then, quite suddenly, the creature turned from them, and walked away towards the bow of the Katariah. "_I have no reason to remain here anymore,_" he said—simply and quietly, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world—and then he stopped. "_But I have not yet failed my master. One final act, to ensure that I am returned to his side … and the honor that awaits me for the tasks I have done … in the name of the Worm._"

Suddenly, he spun on his clawed heel, and his massive claws sparked with swirling energy. "_You will all die here,_" M'Alga boomed, raising his arms high, "_and I shall raise you all as thralls for my master. I shall return you with me, and the power you have shown me will serve the Black Worm well for many years to come._"

"We will not be slaves to anyone," said a familiar voice, "and especially not to you, monster!"

Where J'zargo had come from, Brelyna could not be sure. But she could have kissed him when she saw him on the deck, holding a barrel in one paw, and holding the other paw on his hip in a gallant pose.

Before M'Alga could even think to react, J'zargo had already moved. In a single, heaving movement, the Khajiit had hurled the heavy barrel straight at the monster. And in the instant before it connected with M'Alga's bulk, Brelyna thought she saw a scroll tucked into one of the hoops—and immediately recognized what it was.

At the exact moment as she leapt over Onmund to cover him, the barrel exploded. Sand was blasted out in every direction, and only the fact that the mages had noticed the scroll had saved them; millions of fine grains, superheated from the mage-fire in the scroll, showered their robes and singed their hair. J'zargo himself had ducked behind a crate the moment he'd tossed the barrel, and so escaped any appreciable harm.

M'Alga was not so lucky. The bellowing, muted roar that came from him told Brelyna he'd taken the full blast of the improvised missile—and right in the face as well, judging by the sound of his howling. The Dunmer chanced a look above her shoulder, and felt her jaw go slack: M'Alga was writhing about the deck, his massive claws itching at his face, clearly in awful pain. A closer look revealed the reason why: M'Alga had taken the superhot sand quite literally _head-on_—his eyes had been seared by the combination of fire and fine earth.

_He was blind_.

M'Alga stumbled about the deck, trying his hardest to claw out the sizzling grit in his eyes, but to no avail. He collided with the starboard handrail, overbalanced, and toppled overboard, still screaming and bellowing like an angry dragon even as he splashed into the water.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the crackling fire, now significantly smaller than it had been before. It was still large enough, however, that J'zargo was framed in its light from where Brelyna stood—although, even silhouetted by the flames, the Khajiit's toothy grin was unmistakable.

The Dunmer could not find words for what had just happened. All she seemed able to do was slump to the deck and do a passable imitation of a freshly caught salmon. "How … what … "

"When Grimnir tested Khajiit's scrolls that long time ago," the Khajiit smirked, "this one may not have asked him to test _all_ of them. J'zargo may have kept one or two around."

His smirk widened. "For … sentimental purposes."

Brelyna could not have picked a less appropriate time to start laughing her foolish head off at the Khajiit who had just inflicted a more damaging blow on M'Alga than anyone in Skyrim ever had—perhaps even Grimnir Torn-Skull.

She would not have laughed quite so much, however, had she known that in the midst of the chaos, the mysterious assassin had disappeared.

* * *

By the time the mages were able to completely put out the blaze on the _Katariah_, the scene astern was ghastly—the deck was blackened and charred, and still hot to the touch even after Onmund had used up a great deal of frost magic in containing the blaze. The ship's wheel was nothing more than embers, and a wooden throne that Brelyna presumed the Emperor would use on warm, sunny days to oversee his subjects and his domain was nothing more than firewood; whatever trappings it had once possessed had been completely destroyed.

A short investigation found the source of the fire: a shattered lantern, no doubt caught in the crossfire between M'Alga and the mysterious assassin. The oil from the lantern had spilled onto the wood, and some source of flame—Brelyna surmised either a torch that had fallen as well, or a miscast fire spell—had ignited the flammable liquid. The dryness of the wood had left the fire to spread, and by that time, too many soldiers had been slain to viably keep the blaze under control through normal means.

"Over here!" J'zargo suddenly called out from portside. "This one has found something you may wish to see."

The Dunmer reached him in seconds, and followed J'zargo's outstretched claw. The burnt corpse of a Penitus Oculatus soldier was there, and dead center in where his throat ought to be was a shaft of an arrow, black as night, its head buried into the handrail that supported the soldier's body, effectively nailing him to the ship.

Brelyna ran a finger along the spiral grooves carved into the arrow—the black missile hadn't been so much as warmed by the crippling heat around it, which meant that it could only be made of one thing. "Solid ebony—head, shaft, even the fletching," she noted. "This looks more like a crossbow bolt than an actual arrow. You could get some incredible distances with something like this."

Her boot suddenly trod on something thin and flexible. Mystified, the dark elf looked down and saw, amidst the blackened wood of the deck, a length of thin, pitch-black rope, fluttering in the wind from where it had been tied to the shaft of the bolt, just above the nock. The stray fibers from where the rope had been severed, however, were a ghostly white, and flew like gossamer in the wind.

"Frostbite spider silk," Brelyna said knowingly, her tone one of grim triumph. Spider silk was incredibly strong; even the strongest of weapons needed time to hack through the stuff—time, it seemed, that these unfortunate sailors did not have. "It looks like the outside was dipped in pitch as well. Makes it stronger, and harder to spot as well when it's this dark out."

"Khajiit feels the wind on his fur," J'zargo said—and indeed, Brelyna felt a salty breeze from her left cool the air around them, providing a welcome respite from the fire's aftermath. "Strong and cool, from seaside. The pitch made the rope much heavier as well, just enough so that the wind could not shift it, this one thinks." He swore. "Rope like this cannot be bought from any merchant. It was specially made for this one purpose. J'zargo knew it, and staked his whiskers on it—she _was_ indeed a member of the Dark Brotherhood."

Brelyna's eyes followed the length of the black missile, calculating the angle and possible origin of the missile. It didn't take the Dunmer very long to come up with an answer. "Our assassin must have boarded the ship from _there_—that rock ledge off to starboard," she explained. She pointed to a cliff hanging just below the northern side of the arch. "The highest point of the cliff reaches above the stern. All she had to do was tie off one end of the rope there, fire the other end here on the arrow—and she had an instant grapnel."

J'zargo was wide-eyed. "From that distance, and with this wind?" he rasped. "Even if she is with the Brotherhood, she is no ordinary killer."

Onmund, however, frowned. "She'd be a sitting duck if she climbed a rope that long. How could the Penitus Oculatus not have had the time to deal with her while she was out there?"

"First of all, I'm not so sure she _climbed_," Brelyna said, picking up the rope in her hands. "This rope feels _smooth_, even with the pitch. It's more likely she _slid_ down the rope—the wind is strong enough that it must have helped her along the way. And secondly, I think M'Alga was giving the Penitus Oculatus enough trouble as it was when she made her move."

"Is it possible they were working together?" J'zargo asked, his furry face wrinkled with worry. "They disagreed on this ship, and came to blows before we boarded?"

Brelyna paused, and thought. All three times they had encountered this woman, the Black Worm had not been far behind. The first time, outside Hob's Fall Cave—but the woman shrouded in black had killed one necromancer right in front of them, Brelyna knew, and almost certainly more earlier. There was the remote possibility that it had all been a ruse, however, now that Brelyna thought about it.

But the second time, outside the dining room of Castle Dour—the Black Worm had been nowhere nearby then, with the sole exception of M'Alga in the Blue Palace. And the assassin had not been present at the time of M'Alga's creation; Brelyna had not seen any other signs of life in that cave other than Falmer and chaurus, and the necromancers that controlled them, and were later subsumed into that infernal machinery. So she couldn't possibly have known about his existence up until that moment, when Grimnir and the others had fled to the keep.

"No," she said at length. "I don't think the woman was in on any of this. As far as I know, she just … happened to appear. That's the only reason I can think of—complete coincidence. As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure if either knew the other _existed_ until tonight. They were just here for the—"

She broke off, feeling a sudden icy grip around her insides. _I completely forgot_.

Onmund had the same look of unpleasant realization. "Brelyna … is there anyone else on this ship?" he whispered, his throat sounding very dry. "_Anyone we missed?_"

Brelyna only needed to apply her scrye for a moment to find out … and her heart was already sinking into her bowels even before her suspicions were confirmed. "No."

They all stood there, rooted to the deck, as the enormity of the truth behind the simple reply settled upon the mages.

"_K'sharraj …_ " J'zargo swore again under his breath.

Onmund had gone white. "We shouldn't be here," he muttered, his tone fearful. "Imperial agents could reach this ship any minute. If they see us, we'll be executed as traitors for sure!"

Brelyna remained there for a moment, her dark face contorted in thought. So many had died tonight, some by the blade, others by flame or claw—but all of them had died needlessly, unsuspecting of the horrible fates that had converged upon this ship. They were the only ones left to tell the tale—them, the strange woman with the Brotherhood, and M'Alga.

The Dunmer felt as though her limbs had been coated with lead. She felt lethargic in the wake of her failure, unable and unwilling to move with any semblance of urgency at all. Nothing else mattered to her anymore. She had failed.

Eventually, she made her way portside in a few short strides. "Let them deal with it," she said through clenched teeth, as her hands worked to untie a rope from a longboat nearby, one that had managed to escape the flames relatively unscathed. "This isn't our problem anymore."

* * *

A long while later—most of that time being devoted to lowering that boat to the water—the three mages sat on the shoreline, shivering from the wind and sea spray as they watched Imperial agents by the dozen board the _Katariah_ from far away.

No one spoke or moved—no one had the energy to at the moment; J'zargo could not even lift a claw to cast any fire to warm them up. But all the mage-fire in the world could do nothing for Brelyna right now. With each passing silent moment, she was expecting to hear the shouts from the ship, to confirm the news they knew to be true, but did not want to accept.

Would it have been different, she thought to herself, if Grimnir had been there?

The Dunmer thought back to the fires she had seen twice now on the Arch-Mage's body, and the devastation he had caused from a single punch. Would the Emperor still live, she wondered, if he'd been there to save him? Or would the power of the Dragonborn lash out again, and kill him by accident?

Had Emperor Titus Mede II been doomed to die here, tonight, no matter what Azura's threads of fate foretold?

Then, suddenly, a dozen voices or more—shouting in unmistakable shock and alarm of seeing one dead body in particular—cut the silence between them. Onmund sighed.

"The Emperor's dead," he groaned. "M'Alga's gone off to gods-know-where. I'd say we're right back where we started, but even that implies we made some progress tonight."

Brelyna wasn't about to argue with him. Her chin was in her hands, and she now felt more despondent than before. "I'm starting to think Grimnir was right," she murmured. "Without him, we're sunk."

The howl of a dragon echoed far off in the distance, as if to punctuate her misery.

J'zargo patted her tentatively on the shoulder. "We did the best we could," he said, trying to be reassuring in spite of the dour tone in his own voice. "This one can offer no better praise than that."

Onmund snorted. "Is it because that's the only praise you can offer right now, J'zargo?"

The Khajiit didn't answer.

Brelyna sighed, and laid back upon the shoreline, ignoring the grittiness of the sand. "Gods, I'm tired."

A gust of wind kicked up around them, sending sand and flotsam everywhere. It spoke volumes about Brelyna's fatigue that she did not immediately notice that the gust had not, in fact, come from the northwest as the wind had before—but in the complete other direction.

Another dragon bellowed, the echoing call sounding much closer than its faraway companion.

No, Brelyna suddenly realized as it hit her. It wasn't just another dragon.

_It's already here_.

She didn't even remember getting to her feet. "Everyone up!" she hissed under her breath. "Get to cover now—before we're seen!"

But it was too late—Brelyna saw a vast, winged shadow pass by right over them, mere feet above their heads, and the force of the slipstream sent all three mages sprawling facedown in the gritty sand before they'd taken a single step. In a single fluid movement, Brelyna, out of the corner of her eye, saw the dragon contort in midair to hover above their heads—looking unmistakably right at them.

Then it landed on the shoreline.

How the Imperial soldiers on the Katariah didn't notice this grave threat, Brelyna did not know. But in an instant, all else was driven from her mind as the earth shook from the dragon's impact, flotsam and jetsam splintering into kindling beneath the massive claws. The Dunmer felt the hot breath of the beast down the back of her neck, and the dragon's growling mouth sounded only inches away from her head—

And then—"That will do, Odahviing. I think they've been through enough tonight already."

No other voice would have given Brelyna the courage and strength to stand up. She sprang to her feet so quickly that she nearly unbalanced and fell over again, spitting grit and sand from her mouth all the while.

Grimnir Torn-Skull, meanwhile, dismounted from his dragon with some difficulty—he seemed to have trouble walking, which worried Brelyna—but that was immaterial. The Dunmer could have kissed him full on the mouth for showing up at this moment, when she had never felt more disappointed with herself.

"Thank the Divines," said the Arch-Mage, tottering over to Brelyna and embracing her, along with Onmund and J'zargo when the two of them had recovered enough from the shock to run up to him. "I was beginning to think I wouldn't find you."

Brelyna, now that the shock was beginning to ebb, was the first to speak. "What are you doing here? And what's going on with your legs?" she added, pointing at the shaking knees.

"It's nothing," Grimnir said dismissively, waving a hand in the air. "I've just had a shock, that's all. I've never pushed Odahviing to fly so fast in his life before—I wasn't prepared for just how fast he could fly." He sighed. "I'm glad I came here first. I thought maybe you might need some help after I took care of things in Winterhold."

Onmund heaved a sigh. "You came too late, Grimnir," he said sadly. "The Emperor is—"

"I'm aware." Grimnir waved his hand again. "And I know M'Alga escaped. But we've got a bigger problem now."

He motioned to Odahviing's back. "Climb on—there's no more time. I found out more than I needed to know today. See, I wasn't just at Winterhold, finding out more about Varulf. I was also trying to find out M'Alga's location. And I was successful—I know where he's going next."

Brelyna looked from Grimnir to Odahviing and back again, utterly lost for words for the second time tonight. "What … where … ?"

"I'll explain on the way—just get on!" Grimnir said impatiently, gesturing at them in agitation to climb onto the spiky back of Odahviing. "If we let M'Alga escape this time, we will _never_ be able to catch him again … and he may well be in position to put the entire _world_ in danger."

* * *

_Next chapter: M'Alga's influence extends far beyond what Grimnir had ever dreamed possible._

* * *

**A/N: Hopefully this landlubber didn't make any glaring mistakes with his nautical terminology in this chapter.**

**Not too much longer to go with the story; I think I can have it all wrapped up by the end of June. Rate and review if you so desire, and thanks for reading! - K**


	11. X

X

_The Frozen Hearth_

_Earlier_

Jarl Korir stared at the tiny slip of parchment that a guard had handed him not ten minutes ago.

_Join me for a drink? – G._

He'd almost thrown away the invitation on principle; Grimnir hadn't bothered with any titles—or _names_, for that matter—and was treating his lawful ruler as if he was just another man! That he was the Arch-Mage didn't matter—as far as Korir was concerned, holding authority over a bunch of lunatics like that just made him the most lunatic of them all. At this point, Korir was beginning to think that even this man's status as the Dragonborn was going to be a moot point—a man could only throw his weight about him so much before it started to hurt his body.

So in the first minutes of nightfall, then, Korir had gone to the Frozen Hearth, dressed in his full royal regalia and ready to give him a piece of his mind. It didn't take him long to spot Arch-Mage Grimnir, seated at a wodden table opposite his —except, to his confusion, anything that signified he was Arch-Mage at all was gone. In place of the stately blue robes of that position, Grimnir now wore a faded red jerkin, tan pants, and boots that looked as if he'd just bought them used from Birna's shop. The only piece of finery Korir could see on him was the satchel slung over one shoulder.

The Jarl's confusion rapidly gave way to shock as he realized that Grimnir looked rather more scarred than when they'd last met—_the man was missing an _ear_, for Talos' sake!_ Korir thought as he spotted the gruesome injury. Had this threat he'd been dealing with for the past week really been as dangerous as the mages had claimed that day?

Grimnir, at any rate, didn't appear too bothered by his injury, as he waved at the Jarl. "Hail, Korir!" he called out. "Come, take a seat! The night is cold, and the mead is warm!" He brandished a bottle of the stuff in his direction.

Korir was too absorbed in the sight to immediately hear him. But his mind caught up in short order, and he walked towards the table until he was feet from the Dragonborn.

"What are you playing at?" the Jarl growled, pointing a finger at Grimnir. "Why did you call me here, and why do you deign to treat me as if I was just another man?"

Grimnir was unfazed. "Isn't that all we are, in the end?" he asked. "Just men? No names, no titles, no list of accomplishments—nothing but the name we were given at birth?"

He pushed a bottle to Korir. "Come and drink, friend. Forget about your title for a time. Let us enjoy the time the gods have given us."

Korir thought he was beginning to understand why Grimnir had dressed the way he did—he was trying to tell him that he wasn't here as Arch-Mage—or, indeed, as Dragonborn. But the clothes did not make the man, Korir knew, and neither did the armor make the warrior. Grimnir would have to try a lot harder to entreat his Jarl tonight.

"Someone once told me—earlier today, as a matter of fact," Grimnir went on, perhaps sensing what Korir was thinking, "that a true hero doesn't simply protect his people from threats and ill will. He walks among them, sharing words, food and drink … and fears of the war to come."

This, finally, gave Korir pause. The news of what had happened in Windhelm had traveled like wildfire, even by the standards of the province. Almost all agreed claimed that the Dragonborn had proven a match for the menace that had infiltrated the city—though it still remained at large, which gave the Jarl mixed feelings as to whether such a monstrous being ought to face justice or death for the things he had done—and so there was no question in Korir's mind as to whom had said that to Grimnir.

And so, with a heavy sigh, he sat down, and uncorked the bottle Grimnir had lent him. Korir, like any Nord worth his salt, was well accustomed to the drink, and knew from first taste how much to his liking he'd find a bottle. And this bottle, he thought as he took a draught, was among the best he'd ever tasted.

"I told Dagur you'd be coming along tonight," Grimnir told him as the Jarl nodded his approval, and he uncorked his own bottle and took a swig. "Apparently he'd been keeping the very best of his brew apart from all his other barrels until Ranmir sobered up and paid his tab." He sighed. "Poor man. I hope the gods give him peace soon."

Korir decided against telling Grimnir that Korir had not turned up in town ever since Grimnir and the others had come back—and the snowy wastes that encircled the town were not to be traveled lightly by a man who couldn't hold his liquor. He settled, therefore, for nodding his head in sympathy. "Poor man," he echoed.

For a while longer, neither man spoke, merely wishing to enjoy his mead. But Korir thought he could catch Grimnir taking glimpses at him, just for a split second. It was hard to see, with how poorly this part of the tavern was lit, but the Jarl was almost certain that the Dragonborn's blue eyes had flickered in his direction.

Korir sighed as he drained the last of his bottle. "So what did you want to talk about?" he asked with a slight note of irritation.

Grimnir lowered his own bottle from his lips. "How much do you know about what happened in Windhelm today?"

The Jarl thought. "Probably just as much as everyone else in the province by now," he said. "The Palace of the Kings was attacked by that monster from the Sightless Pit you told me about. His attack was foiled, and he escaped. Ulfric's considering the attack an Imperial plot to crumble the Stormcloak movement from within, he's sending every last ounce of his military might to Haafingar Hold, and so on and so forth." He looked at Grimnir. "And I'm guessing you're going to tell me I'm wrong yet again, aren't you?"

Grimnir bit his lip. "In fairness, the Imperial plot is honestly news to me. I was under the impression that Ulfric was hoping to weaken the Thalmor's grasp on Skyrim by driving the Empire out of their last stronghold in Solitude. But that's neither here nor there," he said dismissively. "Do you happen to know why M'Alga was in Windhelm in the first place?"

Korir gave a shrug. "I've heard rumors these necromancers behind M'Alga are aligned with the Thalmor," he said, feeling a sour note of distaste creep into his throat at the sheer notion of such an alliance. "Considering how badly Ulfric wants to boot the elves out of Skyrim—and the sooner the better, aye—I wouldn't put it past the Thalmor to assassinate him, make it look like a band of sorcerers was responsible."

"Unfortunately, however," said Grimnir, "rumors are often far from the truth. I don't blame anyone for being wrong—there weren't very many eyewitnesses inside the Blue Palace at the time. And truth be told, I thought M'Alga would go after Ulfric myself, for a long time. Then again, I'd also thought he'd kill the Emperor instead of trying to kill Elisif. I won't lie to you, Korir. M'Alga vexes me—and the more times I see him, the more I want to know why he did what he did."

He sighed. "He wasn't in Windhelm to kill Ulfric, you see. He infiltrated the city to kill someone else. One of his lieutenants—Varulf Blackmane, his name was."

Korir's eyes widened. _Someone tried to kill the Harbinger of the Companions?_ The very notion of it was absurd, more so than even the fact that apparently Grimnir hadn't known the man was a Stormcloak at all until just now. Varulf was already a local legend in Whiterun Hold, even before he came to be Jorrvaskr's newest _de facto_ leader after the untimely passing of Kodlak Whitemane.

"Now, I think I have an idea why the Thalmor would be interested in Ulfric," Grimnir continued. "But Varulf is a complete mystery to me. What would anyone—Thalmor, necromancers, or otherwise—stand to gain by killing him?"

At that moment, Korir understood why he'd been called out here. He wasn't particularly fond of the method, to be sure, but the Stormcloaks were among the Jarl's more favored subjects of conversation. No one else in Winterhold was quite so connected to the Stormcloaks as he was—which did the Dragonborn no favors; Korir would have thought Grimnir would be more favorable to Ulfric as a fellow Nord.

He leaned back in his seat. "Not a lot's known about Varulf's early life," he said. "He was born to a woodcutter out in Bruma, I can tell you that much. First swung an axe when he was barely six."

Grimnir looked intrigued. "Varulf wasn't born in Skyrim?"

Korir waved a hand. "Bruma's close enough to Cyrodiil's northern border that it might as well be," he said. "And there's nowhere in Tamriel that's far enough away for anyone _not_ to hear about the Companions—and Varulf certainly heard of them. Thought of them as heroes, he did. Every day when he was a lad, he had dreams of joining their ranks, fighting for honor and glory. And the second he came of age, that's exactly what he did. Took his old man's axe, tied a rucksack on the blade, and walked his way into Skyrim with his parents' blessing.

"That was about … ten, fifteen years ago, I'd say," Korir went on. "He wasn't in Jorrvaskr all the time, see, and he certainly didn't head there straightaway. He worked at the mill in Falkreath for a while, did an honest man's living—then one day, he just … up and left town. No one noticed at the time—a dangerous prisoner had escaped from the city jail, and that was the talk of the town for some time. Same _day_, even, I've heard some people say. But eventually, after the hubbub about the escaped prisoner had left, the town soon noticed Varulf had left, too, and to this day, no one's entirely sure why. Varulf doesn't really talk much about his life for some reason—either something bad happened when he was a lad—or nothing happened at all, and he figured a life without hardship was the same as having no life at all."

"Mm." Grimnir said nothing else, and his silence spurred Korir to keep talking.

"Anyway, at some point he joined the Companions, did some odd jobs for them around the province, as Companions often do," he said. "He kept on doing that for roundabout a decade, and then that whole mess with Kodlak and that bandit group, the Silver Hand, happened. Rumor was Varulf slaughtered them all personally for what they'd done. Apparently the other Companions made him Harbinger shortly afterwards; I don't know if it was because of that, or something else he did. But early last year, about a month after he was declared the Harbinger, he showed up in Windhelm, and swore fealty to Ulfric Stormcloak and all he stood for."

"That's something else that interests me," Grimnir said. "I didn't think the Companions were ones to take sides in this civil war. They didn't care about serving the Empire or the Stormcloaks, only the people of Skyrim. So why would Varulf go against that? What would he gain from joining up with Ulfric?"

Korir took some time to collect his thoughts before he answered the question—he didn't really know himself, after all, and Varulf was probably not keen to tell. Korir knew when someone wanted to keep a matter private, and he wasn't one to snoop. That having been said …

"I'm not even certain the idea was Varulf's to begin with," he explained. "He certainly didn't go out all that way for it in the first place. From what I understand, one of those odd jobs with the Companions landed him there in the first place. Couldn't tell you what it was, or even if he completed the contract—because soon after he got there, he stumbled on a murder scene. Barmaid, name of Susanna, body torn up like you wouldn't believe. Horrific scene."

He stopped here to blow his nose—undignified for a Jarl, yes, but as Grimnir had pointed out, being a Jarl meant nothing to two Nords talking over drinks.

"She wasn't the first, either. A killer had been stalking the streets of the city for months by then—the Butcher, they called him. The guards were spread too thin, with the war and all, so they didn't have the men they needed to investigate these murders. So Varulf offered to help catch the Butcher—and he solved the case in a matter of _days_."

Grimnir leaned forward, clearly interested. "What did he find?"

Korir took a breath. "The cuts on Susanna's body were consistent with the way the ancient Nords embalmed their dead," he said. "Since no one did the practice anymore, Varulf concluded that someone in Windhelm was practicing necromancy."

Grimnir did not dare interrupt. Korir thought he'd never seen the Dragonborn look so intrigued in a conversation—even if it was something as morbid as this, he said to himself as he took another steeling breath. "A short while later, he was proven right," he said. "One of the victims' houses had a secret room that was covered in gore … and there was an amulet, too. Hidden, though not very well. I heard Varulf offered it to the local curio store for a respectable sum."

"What kind of amulet?" Grimnir asked.

Korir grimaced. "A Necromancer's Amulet."

Nothing could have prepared the Jarl of Winterhold for what happened next: Grimnir Torn-Skull leapt out of his seat so quickly that he crashed into the wall behind him.

"_The_ Necromancer's Amulet?!" the Arch-Mage said weakly as he sat back down. "The same amulet created by Mannimarco himself?!" He took a long, shuddering breath. "What the _hell_ was it doing in Windhelm?"

"No one knows," shrugged Korir. "Somehow, the owner of the curio shop had discovered it—oh, yes," he added as a questioning look appeared on Grimnir's still-shocked face, "_he_ was the Butcher all along. Not for much longer, though—Varulf made sure of that." He chuckled—while it would have been satisfying to see justice dealt to someone so monstrous, necromancy was still necromancy, and an act to be punished by a swift, unrelenting steel blade to the neck. "From what I heard, Ulfric personally offered Varulf a position in his own army after he brought the Butcher to justice. The Harbinger accepted, and … well, you know the story from there."

Grimnir frowned. "Ulfric doesn't seem the type to hand out such things like they're party favors," he said thoughtfully. "There must have been a good reason for it. Killing a serial killer can't be reason enough."

Korir sighed again, and leaned so close to Grimnir that the two men were almost nose-to-nose. "You didn't hear this from me," he said, "but I think it was just a publicity stunt. I'm not saying Varulf's a bad hand with an axe—"

"—nor should you," Grimnir cut in, "I saw him hit M'Alga right in the face with Wuuthrad—"

"—but the fact remains that he's still a Companion," Korir continued. "One of the two—Varulf, Ulfric, I don't know—seems to think that having one faction's allegiance will help spread the word about the other's efforts throughout the province and maybe even beyond. If it's Ulfric, he wants to spread the word out to Tamriel that the Empire—and the Thalmor with them—isn't invincible. And if it's Varulf, chances are he wants to make the Companions a household name throughout the land." He coughed. "I'd say he's off to a good start," he added, "if what you said about him just now is true."

"So that's why M'Alga went after Varulf," Grimnir said, half to himself. "The Harbinger found one of Mannimarco's artifacts, and somehow the Black Worm found out. They wanted it back."

Korir laughed again. "I'd have liked to see them try," he said. "The moment Varulf knew what the amulet was, he dropped it like it carried the plague. Foisted it off on Ulfric's court mage, so I heard—old Wuunferth—and then _he_ went and sold it to some museum in Morrowind. Supposed to hold a bunch of Daedric artifacts and the like."

Grimnir snorted. "Fat lot of good it'll do, keeping it there," he said. "I've had enough experience with powerful artifacts to know that they aren't just some trinket. They don't obey you—more often than not, _you're_ the one obeying _them_. They have a mind of their own, you know—they've been known to abandon whoever possesses them at will on some occasions. It's as if their creators don't think anyone else but themselves ought to possess such artifacts of great … magickal … "

The Arch-Mage trailed off, a dreamlike expression slowly spreading across his face—eyes wide and slowly blinking, mouth sagging and half-open; the dumbstruck look of someone who'd either just had a dreadful shock … or a momentous revelation.

" … magickal power," he finished, his voice at a whisper. "Artifacts of great magickal power … "

Korir blinked. What had come over Grimnir all of a sudden? Was it something he had said?

"I can find him," Grimnir mumbled—and then, suddenly, his face split in a wide grin. "That's how I can find him!"

His sudden, booming laugh nearly deafened Korir, and caused half the tavern to go quiet. The Jarl saw Dagur out of the corner of his eye; the bartender was frozen in the act of wiping a dirty mug, and looked at Grimnir as if the man had finally gone mad—which was entirely possible, given the circumstances.

"Find who?" Korir said irritably as he dug a finger into his ringing ear. "Damn it all, man, what are you on about?!"

But Grimnir was already dashing for the door, his Arch-Mage's robes half pulled out of the satchel he'd been carrying. There followed a few moments where Grimnir struggled to put his robes on while simultaneously trying to exit the tavern, while Jarl Korir ran after him, desperate to know what in the name of the Nine was going on.

Finally, Grimnir succeeded, and bull-rushed the door nearly off its hinges as he sprinted out into the town. "ODAHVIING!"

Jarl Korir, who had just cleared the threshold of the tavern, skidded so suddenly to a halt that he fell, right on the edge of the steps. Quicker still, before Grimnir's Shout had even finished processing in his mind, he scrabbled back into the tavern, his backside still smarting from the tumble.

Grimnir, meanwhile, kept on running, which Korir considered a fortunate event—hours later, he would swear blind to his wife and son that the behemoth that passed over the inn, mere moments after he'd retreated inside, had grazed the rooftop in its descent. The beds and tables rattled, and drinks spilled over Dagur's counter—and for a very brief moment, a shadow had swooped low over the tavern, casting a split-second shadow on the stunned patrons beneath.

The earth, however, did not shake, nor did Korir's world explode in fire and scales. Even so, it was a full minute before the Jarl summoned the courage to totter up from his hiding-spot under the nearest table to the doorstep of the inn, and out into the street.

By that time, however, the Dragonborn and his dragon were long gone from his sight.

* * *

"That's one way to make an exit," Onmund remarked, his tone much weaker than usual—though this was less in response to Grimnir's tale, and more because of the fact that a dragon was decidedly not his favorite way to travel. The Nord looked rather green, and as he spoke he stared straight ahead instead of at the Arch-Mage, eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Did you really get that much out of Korir?" asked Brelyna. "With just one pint of mead?" Her face incredulous despite its total lack of color as Odahviing soared over the swamplands outside of Morthal. Regiments of Stormcloak soldiers marched under them—squirming patches of blue and brown from so far up high—no doubt making their way to Solitude.

At any other moment, this would have captivated everyone's attention. The Arch-Mage's story, however, was proving to be so engrossing that none of the mages spare more than a passing glance for the army underneath.

"Now hold on, hold on," Grimnir said, waving a hand in agitation, "I haven't even gotten halfway finished with my story yet!" He returned his free hand to Odahviing's other horn to keep from falling a hundred feet from his steed.

"Anyway, what Korir said about the Necromancer's Amulet made me absolutely certain where I had to go next … "

* * *

Grimnir had wasted no time in mounting Odahviing's neck; the great red dragon had come within scant inches of running aground with how low he had skimmed the main street of Winterhold. In one flourish, the Arch-Mage had grabbed one of Odahviing's horns, and pulled himself aloft and onto the dragon's smooth neck.

"Take me due south, Odahviing—along the Velothi Mountains!" he yelled over the rush of wind that came as the dragon ascended once more. "There's someplace I need to visit there. I'll tell you when I see it."

The dragon dipped his head once, and beat his massive wings harder as he followed the road below them, turning slightly southeast towards the northernmost peak of the mountain chain that formed Skyrim's eastern border.

Grimnir watched the scenery pass by in a blur. He saw Windhelm for only a moment, and he thought with a pang of what had happened there just hours ago. M'Alga's leering face flashed in his vision, but only for an instant, and by the time it had faded from Grimnir's sight, the city was already gone.

He saw other sights below him as Odahviing continued on; there was a statue he did not recognize, around which a group of men and women battled violently to the death, spattering blood on the snow-covered stones. Next came a stronghold of Orcs, high in the Velothi range, with an old wooden bridge that linked it to a forge. From here, Grimnir could just barely make out the few thatched roofs that formed the mining settlement of Kynesgrove—where he had encountered Alduin for the first time since Helgen's destruction, and slain the dragon Sahloknir—before they too passed from his vision in the blink of an eye.

The Arch-Mage turned then—and his heart quickened when he saw what lay ahead—a giant, snow-covered mound, so smooth and perfectly curved that it could not possibly be natural.

"Land there!" Grimnir quickly instructed Odahviing, and the dragon did his bidding without delay, turning right in a wide arc, performing a lap around the mound in search of a suitable place to land.

Grimnir had never seen this place from so high up before, and he took a moment to appreciate the design behind the structure—for it was indeed unnatural, yet at the same time older than most civilizations in Tamriel. Most of the building remained covered by heavy snowfall, yet there were several points—round, flat surfaces of some aquamarine material Grimnir could not make out—where the snow had not fallen. He wondered if some sorcery had gone into making this possible, some ward to deflect any adverse weather conditions—or if it was something of the substance itself. No one on Tamriel yet knew the answer, and those who had constructed it were unable—and likely unwilling—to say anything.

The last thing Grimnir saw before Odahviing descended low enough that the perfect curve of the artificial mound was lost to sight was the largest of the teal portholes, easily as wide as he was tall, and twice as wide as the other polished surfaces like it. Its creators had placed this porthole at the summit of the mound—dead center above the point where Grimnir hoped his last, best hope at finding M'Alga would be.

It did not occur to him until much later that the whole thing looked rather like a giant eye, forever staring upwards at the sky of Tamriel and its moons—and the many mysteries that lay beyond.

Odahviing touched down then, his claws coming to rest upon loose rock that crumbled under his weight. There had been an avalanche here, Grimnir thought—and a recent one, too; this had not been here last time. For a split second, the thought occurred to him that the way inside had been caved in.

But immediately, his heart was calmed as he saw the doorway that had been carved into the rock; the avalanche had barely missed covering the entrance. But the loose rocks were still very large—and very sharp as well; Grimnir noticed several particularly jagged boulders with edges that looked as though he could lose a limb trying to climb past them—and so he bade Odahviing to climb closer to the entrance, to the edge of the rockslide where the rocks were neither so large or so plentiful.

"I shouldn't be long," the Arch-Mage said as he dismounted from Odahviing. "Give me … ten, fifteen minutes. If I'm not out by then, you can go about your business. I'll give you a Shout if I'm still alive after that."

The red dragon's eyes furrowed in what Grimnir assumed was a puzzled expression. "_If_ you are still alive?" Ohahviing repeated in Tamrielic, one of the few dragons Grimnir knew to have even a basic understanding of the language. "You have told me of this place before, and your _krongrah_ here. _Kos hi zofaas do dilon, orin fod hi krii?_"

_Do you fear the dead, even when you kill them yourself?_ Grimnir did not know why that question shook him as profoundly as it did. The dragons had a propensity to speak in riddles, and nothing they ever spoke in their language had a single meaning—there were more layers in their Words than even the Voice could explore.

"You never know what you might find in a place like this," he responded. "Remember when I told you about my encounter with Vulthuryol?"

Odahviing appeared to take Grimnir's meaning, and nodded.

"I won't be in there for very long," the Arch-Mage said again. "Besides, if you're that worried about me," he added with a small smile, "you can always stick your head in and ask how I'm doing."

That seemed to satisfy the dragon, and he crawled forward a few paces on his wingtips, and dipped his head into the entrance hall as Grimnir opened the door to the Oculory of Mzulft—

* * *

Brelyna's face suddenly lit up at this point as she let out a loud gasp, audible even over the rush of wind as the four mages soared into Whiterun Hold. She would no doubt have said more had J'zargo not thumped a paw into her stomach, silencing her before she could utter a single word.

"Hush, now," purred the Khajiit, flicking a bit of dried bile off his whiskers as the Dunmer continued to cough. "This one loves a good story, yes—and it is very rude to interrupt a good story, lest the climax be given away."

"She would have figured it out sooner or later, anyway," chided Grimnir, who in truth was rather flattered that J'zargo was apparently so entertained by his tale, "but you have my thanks."

The interruption thus averted, the Arch-Mage returned to relating his story.

* * *

—and ran right into a Falmer.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised than the other. Grimnir and the cave-elf stood only feet away from one another, his blue eyes to the Falmer's eyeless, wrinkled face, both their mouths moving in surprise, but no words coming out.

The Falmer recovered a fraction of an instant first, and unhooked his crude axe from the strap on his back. He raised it aloft, and made a chittering shriek that all of Mzulft had to have heard.

That, more than anything—along with the footfalls of what sounded like a half-dozen armored, angry Falmer approaching the corridor—brought Grimnir back to his senses. All at once, as the shock of the encounter faded, he remembered where he was, and what was standing before him … and behind him.

And he ducked behind the door.

An instant later—_"Yol … Toor SHUL!"_

Grimnir saw the Falmer emerge from the corners of the hall at the exact same moment Odahviing shouted through the open doors, spitting an immense torrent of fire that filled the corridor completely, and might have roasted the Arch-Mage as well were it not for the fact that he had leapt behind the sturdy Dwemer construction. The Falmer, on the other hand, had nowhere to go—but blind as they were, they had no idea what was coming until it had already immolated them. Nothing but clouds of drifting ash was left of the guards that had been roused by Grimnir's intrusion into Mzulft.

Judging by the faint sounds of chitters and shrieks that continued to echo inside the ruin, however, Grimnir doubted they had been alone. _There's a lot more of them than last time_, he thought as he listened to the cacophonous noise. But thankfully, it didn't sound like any more of them stood between him and his objective.

Nevertheless, Grimnir stayed as quiet as his body would allow as he navigated the corridor. He didn't have long to go—just a short distance, a left turn, and he'd be there—but he didn't want to be taking any chances with how many Falmer he'd heard in this section of the ruin.

As Grimnir silently walked on, he saw the ransacked remains of food and drink, and of bedrolls and crates. The lot of them were ruined, and recently too. The Falmer had been making themselves at home here, by the looks of it; with none of the Synod left to barricade the door, the cave-elves had been free to stake their claim here.

That was where everything had changed, really—the Synod, one of the splinter factions of the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil, and their political motivations for being in Skyrim. They too had been in search of the Staff of Magnus, and had sought to recover it for the sole purpose of consolidating power in the name of the Emperor. But the Synod had quickly learned that the dangers of Dwemer ruins had not died with the dwarves.

It wasn't long, therefore, before the Falmer and their chaurus quickly tired of the Imperials' violation of their territory, and quickly slaughtered all but two of the unfortunate expedition. One had died of his poisoned wounds at the front door of the city in front of Grimnir's own eyes; Brelyna, J'zargo, and Onmund could do little to save him. But he had provided the key to the rest of the sprawling city, and to the last of the Synod's survivors, one Paratus Decimius, who had explained to them the workings of the arcane machinery contained at the summit of Mzulft—the same summit where Grimnir was now headed.

He pulled open the doors, and beheld the massive golden sphere on its plinth—the inner workings of the Oculory, large enough to house a dragon, with its many lenses of bluish-green glass glinting in the lamplight. The sound of the machinery inside was deafening, a mechanized song of turning gears, pumping pistons, and hissing boilers that made Grimnir's bones vibrate uncomfortably. He ascended the long ramp that wound around the machine.

Then, suddenly, he froze. Something had moved above him, just at the edge of his vision; had Grimnir blinked at that moment, he would have missed it completely. Not that it would have mattered—the Arch-Mage became aware of the clicking, growling noise of Falmer at the exact same moment he'd seen one of them from below, through the glass ceiling that also separated him from the Oculory controls.

The cave-elf didn't sound alone—Grimnir thought he could hear at least one chaurus with him. He felt his heart almost stop then and there—chaurus venom was extremely potent, and had been known to eat right through Dwemer metal if the conditions were right. If they had harmed the Oculory in some way … Grimnir broke into a jog, and his fingers sparked with lightning as he climbed the ramp onto the next level, not bothering to be subtle; hopefully the Falmer would consider dealing with an intruder more important than the contraption far beyond their understanding.

The Arch-Mage's suspicions were confirmed as he left the ramp: a single armored Falmer, perched in front of the panel that controlled the Oculory's focusing lenses. He, and the two chaurus scuttling about the room, had evidently been ransacking the whole place—bits of books and parchment were scattered about the floor, and puddles of black ink and dark red blood were splashed here and there.

A detached part of Grimnir's mind wondered where the blood had come from as he prepared to charge a lightning bolt. It was a few moments longer before he realized that Paratus Decimius was nowhere to be seen.

The Synod agent had been suspicious of Grimnir's motives from the moment he'd been rescued. He was also very shrewd, despite having suffered the harrowing experience of surviving an entire horde of Falmer with naught but a tightly locked door. The four mages had hoped that with their combined efforts, the location of the Staff of Magnus would be determined shortly.

And so it had—but there had also been complications as well, complications that made Paratus even more distrustful of the College; if the circumstances had been different, he would likely have attacked them, and forced the mages to silence him for good. J'zargo had been for the idea anyway—being so far from Cyrodiil would essentially make Mzulft and both the Eye and Staff of Magnus a lost cause for the Synod Council. Brelyna, however, had talked him out of it—there was nothing to be gained from killing him, and doing so ran the risk of dragging the College out of its historically neutral stance in political matters.

However, as Grimnir spared a moment's glance at the bloodstains, he guessed that it didn't really matter. With no one else to guard the door, Paratus had been helpless to fend off whatever Falmer had not been already slain. He had either been killed or captured—and this being the Falmer, Grimnir knew neither experience was a pleasant one.

And though he had never garnered much respect for the brief time he'd known the agent, Grimnir resolved to make the Falmer's situation an equally _unpleasant_ experience.

He let fly with his lightning at the nearest chaurus, who'd been busy gnawing on a piece of scrap metal near the giant armillary of the machine. The blast hit the metal, and flowed through the insect's pincers and into its spiky body—with the end result being the dog-sized bug exploding into a mess of chitin and goo. The other chaurus skittered behind a stone chair behind its master, and spat a gob of venom at Grimnir, which he quickly deflected with a hasty ward.

The Falmer hissed defiantly at him, and clutched a long staff of half-rotted wood, topped by the severed head of a dead chaurus, a filthy soul gem grasped in its razor-sharp pincers. This soul gem now hissed with the grayish-white mist of charging frost magic.

Grimnir ducked out of the way as the Falmer brandished his staff at him, sending dozens of icy shards streaming from the soul gem, shattering against the stone and ripping apart threadbare banners and carpeting. Fortunately for the Arch-Mage, the gem's energies must have been severely drained; the spikes of ice were nowhere near the size he was expecting, and the torrent of magic ended almost as soon as it had begun.

The silence descended upon the ruin with a suddenness that did not seem entirely natural in a place where echoes lasted for many times longer than the sounds they imitated. But from his hiding place by the ramp, Grimnir heard, in that silence, the sound of a crude, chitinous sword being drawn—and he knew he had his chance.

He bounded out from the ramp, and the instant he saw the Falmer—"_TIID!_"

The chaurus had chosen that precise moment to fire another blob of its acidic spittle at Grimnir, and as time slowed down to a crawl around the Arch-Mage, he could see the individual flecks of the corrosive substance even as he sprinted out of the missile's path and charged a pair of lightning bolts. Both Falmer and chaurus, who by now looked as if they were wading through tar with how slowly they were walking, took one arcing bolt each to the head; their brains momentarily sizzled as the electricity burned the organs to ashes in an instant, and their bodies skidded to a halt on the metal dais in the middle of the chamber.

As the effects of Grimnir's Shout wore off, the Arch-Mage, his opposition vanquished, turned his attention to the reason he had flown all this way—before he promptly groaned in irritation.

The armillary that contained the focusing crystal array—the key component to the entire Oculory of Mzulft—was missing said key component. The beam of light that shined down from the translucent glass lens atop the Oculory now shined upon nothing but a thin ring of metal.

For a moment, Grimnir felt his heart sink; Mzulft was far and away the biggest Dwarven ruin he had ever delved into, except perhaps for Blackreach. Trying to locate the crystal in this deserted city would take ages—and with only less than a week after the mages' excursion through Mzulft, there was no telling how well its population of Falmer had recovered!

Then Grimnir remembered how the previous hive of Falmer had stolen the crystal from Synod agents, and how its leader had took it as—presumably—some kind of trophy. The possibility raised his spirits; it meant the chances were he wouldn't have to trek very far to recover it—and the Falmer he had just slain looked armored enough to be a chieftain in his own right.

So Grimnir—grimacing as he rolled back his sleeves—set to work about turning out the pockets of the Falmer. Within seconds he cried out in triumph; the crystal array had been tucked beneath a swaddling of dirty leather that covered the Falmer's chest. He gave the crystal a quick once-over, making sure none of the lenses had cracked and none of the crystals inside the array had broken off, before inserting the device into the armillary.

With a quick shove, Grimnir sent the focusing crystal spinning upwards to meet the beam of light from the roof; it stopped almost at the exact same moment the beam hit the crystals. There was a flash of greenish light as the beams were reflected and refracted all around the Oculory, split by the crystal array and the arcane machinery of the Dwemer, until they came to rest on the ringed ceiling of the chamber.

Grimnir noted with an annoyed snort that the beams weren't _precisely_ touching the smaller lenses spaced around the round pane in the center—nor were they precisely aligned. But that was to be expected; the crystal was very sensitive to even the slightest change in temperature; he remembered how Paratus had said the cold climate of Skyrim had been enough to warp it completely during the Synod's initial expedition, setting them back immensely even before the Falmer had wiped them all out.

There was a simple answer to this, regardless. First, however, Grimnir would have to realign the array until the beams were more properly focused; a simple application of basic fire and frost magic, in the right amounts and at the right intervals, would accomplish this. He did this, then, keeping an eye on the beams as they slowly shifted along the ceiling, waiting for when the array would reach its closest possible approximation to where Grimnir and the others had aligned it the first time.

Several long minutes passed before Grimnir was satisfied with the new positions of the beams, but he was still not done. Evidently the Falmer had been experimenting with the controls of the lenses above him, ignorant of their true purpose; the reflective surfaces were in completely the wrong places from before. It was an easy matter to return them to the right positions, but the process was time-consuming; Grimnir knew every passing second meant another second that Brelyna and the others were on their own, and M'Alga's location remained out of his reach. But there was nothing Grimnir could do at present, and he was well aware of it—for one thing, he only knew how to slow time _down_, not speed it _up_.

So, with a sigh, the Arch-Mage proceeded to maneuver the lenses back to their proper positions, feeling his heart quicken with each progressive press of the switch. It was slow work; the three buttons on the panel, and the revolving sections of ceiling each one controlled, behaved about the way it would be expected to after four thousand years of little to no proper maintenance, save for whatever automatons ever ventured up to this part of Mzulft. But they worked regardless, and after some time, Grimnir pressed the button for what he hoped would be the last time.

By the time the last lens was aligned, and its respective lance of light was bounced off the lens and back into its original beam in an ever-increasingly brighter sequence of illumination, Grimnir's brow was beginning to perspire, and he nearly leapt headlong from the control panel in his haste to see the fruits of his labors.

He was not disappointed.

The first time he had seen the perfect map of Tamriel being shined on the stone before him, Paratus' consternation at the initially-less-than-informative results had been lost to Grimnir, so engrossed had he been in this marvel of the dwarves. The second time around was no less captivating, if only because the layout of this map was not _quite_ the same as the first time around.

At that time, the Eye of Magnus had amassed so much power in Grimnir's absence that it was actively interfering with the map, preventing the Synod from identifying the locations of almost every other location of a potential source of an exceptionally powerful magickal artifact. In fact, the only such location that had not been distorted was that of Labyrinthian, the site of the Staff of Magnus. Whether this was because of its connection to the Eye, or simply because of how powerful an artifact it was on its own, Grimnir was not certain.

The map that had now appeared before him was slightly different in its appearance, but much more significant in the meaning behind that appearance; without the Eye of Magnus to interfere in the results, Grimnir was able to identify dozens of locations of interest with a single glance, and hundreds more at a closer inspection, spread out all over the map—each one of them marked by a miniscule illuminating dot. Of these, Winterhold yet remained the most illuminated; no doubt, Grimnir thought, because of the Staff of Magnus' presence in his quarters there, along with a pair of ancient carved masks, and gods only knew what remnants of strange forbidden magic yet remained in the Midden—the Augur of Dunlain, that sinister Daedric gauntlet, among other things.

But only one of these magickal locations currently commanded Grimnir's attention—the one that was _moving_.

It wasn't much of a movement—just a vibration, really, and for a moment Grimnir wondered if perhaps his eyes, or the flicker of the gas lamps, hadn't been playing tricks on him. It only took a moment of close examination for him to confirm that this was not the case—and instantly, Grimnir knew that his hunch had been correct.

He had been banking on the necromantic ritual that had played its part in creating M'Alga, fusing the bodies, souls, and the _magicka_ of ten powerful necromancers into a single being. That large an amount of concentrated magicka had to have been picked up by the Oculory's inner workings, and so it had tonight. What was more, the Oculory was showing that moving point at a location just north of Solitude.

_The Emperor_, Grimnir realized with a shiver. Fervently, he hoped that Brelyna and the others had not been too late in reaching the monster.

He turned to leave—and then, quite suddenly, stopped. It was in the corner of his eye; had Grimnir's attention been focused even an inch in another direction, he would have missed it completely. He whirled back on the map of Tamriel, where he had seen the sight … and felt his jaw drop at what he was seeing.

A _line_—thinner than a fingernail, but as bright as the setting sun—was being drawn on the map, from off the edge of its western boundary. As if being penned by the most meticulous of invisible hands, the pulsing stripe of light slowly crossed the seas to the west of High Rock and Hammerfell, passing them by without a pause …

Grimnir watched breathlessly as the miniature streak approached the shores of the Summerset Isle, the home of the Altmer and the seat of the Dominion … it crossed the northern edge of the coast … the western peninsula … it was heading for a brightly illuminated dot … _was this perhaps Alinor?_ Grimnir thought, _the capital city of the Isle?_

And then—for the second time in as many minutes—the Arch-Mage of Winterhold had the shock of his life.

As if playing some children's game of connect-the-dot, the slicing beam _bounced off_ the shining point of light that Grimnir believed might be Alinor, veering off to the north, slightly east—and Grimnir instinctively knew where the beam's final destination was going to be: it was heading for Skyrim—_no_, he amended. _Not Skyrim_.

_It was heading for M'Alga._

Try as Grimnir might, he could not tear his eyes from the display. He knew the beam was going to connect with M'Alga, but what would happen next? Would it simply bounce off again? And what _was_ this beam, anyway? For it to even show up on this display, and so brightly at that, indicated a reading of truly _immense_ power.

_What was going on?!_

Grimnir was only dimly aware that everything he had ever believed about M'Alga and the threat he posed was being turned on his head. Of all the things he had expected to find with the Oculory, this was the very last on that extensive list. He had no idea where to go from here.

But the tiny representation of M'Alga was moving again, and much more noticeably this time: he was moving south, now—south and slightly east, by the looks of it. This new development gave the Arch-Mage pause; the direction M'Alga had chosen to move was incredibly suspect. He wondered if perhaps his three companions had driven M'Alga out of Solitude, or if … _No_, he thought hurriedly, shaking his head to get rid of the thought. He would not believe that until he had seen the evidence with his own eyes.

But the fate of the Emperor seemed like a minor inconvenience to Grimnir at this point. Because a new thought had occurred to him, as he watched the dot of M'Alga enter the swamps of Hjaalmarch: the line was being erased around him, fading from the map as if a rag was erasing its presence in one smooth wipe—

And Grimnir suddenly realized what was going on. He stood there, open-mouthed, and his finger traced the remaining sections of line as a hundred puzzle pieces fitted into place in his mind: the difference in M'Alga's voices … _You are strong … but I am stronger_ … the strange, affable brutality with which he had conducted himself … _No, master! Please let me kill him! …_

The Arch-Mage leapt back from the map of Tamriel as if he'd been stung. Without a second look backward at the display, he sprinted from the Oculory, and back out into Skyrim, nearly plowing headlong into the snout of Odahviing as he skidded to a halt.

Before the dragon could ask what had happened, Grimnir was already clambering onto his neck. "Solitude!" was all he was able to gasp out as he caught his breath. "Take us to Solitude _now!_ Fly as fast as you've ever flown before!"

Odahviing's growl sounded almost human in his excitement. "Be careful what you say, _thuri_," he said as he climbed from the debris of the avalanche onto smoother, more solid ground. "I may take it as a _challenge_."

With a bellowing roar, he launched his scaly bulk from the summit of Mzulft, and spread his wings to their fullest extent. "_Tiid … Klo UL!_"

The world around them flashed bluish-white, and though he could not see it from where he sat, Grimnir could imagine the town of Kynesgrove reduced to a near standstill, its townsfolk able to see nothing but a brief flash of dark crimson scales. But, as it turned out, Odahviing was not done.

"_Amativ wah krongrah, Dovahkiin!_" bellowed the red dragon. "_Wuld … Nah KEST!_"

Grimnir barely had time to hang on for dear life before an _immensely_ strong force wrenched at them from somewhere below Odahviing, grasping them like some children's toy and catapulting them forward with the strength and speed of a Daedra Lord.

* * *

"—and a few minutes later," he said to the wide-eyed mages, "we arrived here."

Grimnir groaned as he concluded his story. "I wasn't prepared for Odahviing to resort to such drastic measures in getting me here," he grunted as he rubbed his legs, still rather numb from undergoing the combination of extreme speeds and slowed passage of time Odahviing had subjected him to, "but I'm glad he did all the same." He patted the nearest horn he could reach, in fresh appreciation for his capabilities of his steed.

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet up with you in time to rescue the Emperor," Grimnir said then, looking at the three mages. They had related their own experiences before he had told his story, telling the Arch-Mage of their unexpected guest on board the Katariah, and of M'Alga's unexpected behavior before his departure from the Emperor's ship. All of them looked crestfallen by the time they had finished bringing him up to speed, and none more so than Brelyna; Grimnir knew the Telvanni hopeful's pride had taken a serious blow tonight.

"But don't hold that against yourselves. I don't think there was anything we could have done to predict what happened tonight. Besides," Grimnir added, with an especial look at J'zargo, "I think you all did a wonderful job facing that brute. I'd say you all did more damage to him on that ship than I have the whole time I've known him."

Khajiit were not known for blushing, but J'zargo tried his best anyway—though his whiskers still drooped from nausea.

"But he's bound to have regenerated his injuries by now," Onmund said sullenly. "He grew back a whole entire _arm_ when you first faced him. What we did is nothing next to _that_."

"Eyes are very sensitive organs," replied Grimnir. "Complex ones, too. Regenerating them just isn't enough if they're as damaged as you say. Maybe M'Alga's capable of that—but if he isn't, then J'zargo's little trick damaged his eyes permanently." He let J'zargo betray a glimmer of pride again before he continued. "But I'm worried that might be enough.

It was a mark of the importance of Grimnir's discovery that the sense of wonderment on the faces of his companions was dispelled almost the instant after his story was concluded. "I guess you were right, Brelyna," he remarked to the Dunmer. "If he wasn't being controlled before, M'Alga's almost certainly under the Thalmor's control now. He can't rely on his eyes any longer—so he's relying on his master or masters to guide his movements now."

"That's not possible!" Brelyna almost shouted back at him. "Arch-Mage, I'm near certain that what you were seeing in the Oculory—that line of light across Tamriel … I think that's the tether that binds them together. It's no different than any other link between a summoner and his thrall—M'Alga's the puppet, and that's his string. But this tether is on a much bigger scale than I ever thought possible. There's no way the Thalmor _or_ the Black Worm could have a powerful enough source of magicka to make it visible on that map!"

"We already know they're working together," said Grimnir. "Maybe they're combining their efforts—doing together what two forces on their own couldn't?"

" … Maybe, but—"

A powerful gust of wind buffeted them as Odahviing sailed over Eldersblood Peak; fortunately, if there was a dragon roosting there right now, it was elsewhere, likely hunting for prey. Brelyna grasped at Grimnir's shoulder to keep from falling over; when she next spoke, her voice was almost inaudible over the rush of the wind.

"Grimnir … we are so far in over our heads now that we can't even see the light of day," she said. "This whole entire mess has gone far beyond elves and necromancers. I'm not saying they're not involved in this—that tether, or whatever it is, wouldn't even be near the Isles if they weren't. But if everything you're telling me about the things you saw in Mzulft is true, then whoever was responsible for creating M'Alga—and controlling him—is doing so from a completely different _continent!_"

The Arch-Mage felt his arms sag to his sides as the confirmation of everything he suspected was true sank in. M'Alga's master was far more powerful than any of them could ever have imagined—more cunning, more devious, more ruthless. Dozens of ideas and thoughts swam in his head—some of despair, but others of hope, only to be swallowed by the knowledge that they were chasing a foe that had been out of their reach from the beginning. It no longer mattered whether or not M'Alga died by their hands.

_At the heart of it_, J'zargo's words echoed in Grimnir's head, _he is just another thrall_. And the Arch-Mage knew that in the mind of a necromancer, thralls were expendable, regardless of their power. If M'Alga was compromised, then his master would simply sever the tether that bound M'Alga to his will—leaving M'Alga to die in an instant, and Grimnir and his companions with no hope of ever solving the mystery behind them both.

But Grimnir was not about to give up hope just yet. On his way back from Mzulft, the beginnings of a last, desperate plan had begun to take shape.

"I think M'Alga's planning to get out of Skyrim," he said to the mages. "By what you all told me, it sounds like the Emperor was his last target. After he was eliminated, he said he had 'no reason to remain here anymore,' right?"

Onmund nodded.

"So we know he's escaping, then," said Grimnir, "and going by what I saw on the map, I think he or his master already has an escape route in mind—he's heading south, probably thanks to that tether. He'll go right through the southern border into Cyrodiil, then Valenwood, and finally to the Isles. I'm betting that's why the tether stopped there first—M'Alga's master wants him to wait there for some reason."

"The Isles are a long way from here," Brelyna noted. "Are you sure Odahviing is up for that kind of journey?"

A loud, prideful snort from the red dragon was the only answer she received.

But here, Grimnir shook his head. "As much as I'd like to defer to his judgment on this one, I don't want to turn this into any larger of an incident than it already is. The Empire probably won't take kindly to a dragon in their territory any more than they will M'Alga—especially since they're probably aware of the part we played in Solitude by now.

"At any rate," Grimnir went on, "I'm not planning on chasing M'Alga all the way across Tamriel to the very core of the Thalmor." He paused here, to let his next words sink in more effectively.

"I'm planning on taking him down in Falkreath Hold."

The looks of surprise from his companions were nothing less than what he expected.

"Why there?!" Onmund's face bore the most shock of the three. "Falkreath's too far away for us to warn!"

"We may not need to warn them this time," Grimnir said. "If I'm lucky, he'll ignore the town completely. M'Alga's top priority is escaping the province—I'd wager a full set of dragonplate that the same tether his master's using overrides any sense of free will he might have gained during his time here."

He leaned in close, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Gentlemen, lady … and dragon," he said, with a smile on his face that Jarl Korir would truly call madness, "we're going to turn that tether against them. Now, here's what's going to happen … "

* * *

_Next chapter: Grimnir's plan has unintended consequences that reach across the continent ... and beyond._

* * *

**A/N: Any of you ever get that feeling that the universe is out to tempt you? The ****_moment_**** I vowed to have this completed by the end of June, what news should I get but the new Terraria patch coming out almost exactly the same day. Oh, the anticipation …**

**Hope you enjoyed the new chapter! - K**


	12. XI

XI

_Alinor_

Melanwe did not enjoy going underground.

For a proper Thalmor—even a mere steward of Celeralmo like herself—there was nothing to be gained where the sun did not shine. But that did not deem such places unworthy of exploration, for the caves beneath the city were too often used for purposes that were a detriment to the cause of the Dominion. As recently as a hundred and fifty years ago, a number of rebellion factions had briefly used them as hideouts while futilely plotting to fight back against them—and even today, there would still be the odd anarchist and terrorist with misguided aspirations to topple the Thalmor government.

This particular hole in the cliffside seemed very fitting for such false elves, thought Melanwe as she entered the cave, the robes of her newly promoted Justiciar's station billowing behind her. The rough rock walls were completely at odds with everything Altmer culture stood for; where the buildings of the Dominion's capital city _flowed_ and _soared_ and scraped the sky in graceful arcs, the gray, filth-encrusted stalagmites and stalactites inside this cave _jutted_ and _plummeted_ with all the finesse of an ogrim of Malacath.

Most high elves would shudder at the sight of such a chaotic place, let alone set foot inside it. Indeed, Melanwe's mother and father held noble status in Sunhold, and would no doubt be blanching in disgust had they discovered where their daughter was at this exact moment. Melanwe herself, however, had no reservations about setting foot in this place—especially since her reasons for being here were passed down from no less a high elf than Celeralmo.

But that didn't mean she had to enjoy doing it.

Wordlessly, she signaled to the twenty guards behind her. The Thalmor soldiers, to a one clad head to toe in highly polished moonstone-and-quicksilver armor, marched inside with spells and swords to hand.

"Keep your eyes open," said their superior, an Altmer standing so stiffly he might have had a ramrod for a spine, and whose armor was of malachite instead of moonstone. The greenish glass reflected the light from his candlelight spell in a thousand multicolored rays that nearly blinded Melanwe in the darkness of the cave.

No one spoke as they trekked further into the cave; such was the seriousness of the mission. Melanwe still remembered when she'd accepted her rather unexpected promotion from Celeralmo; His Eminence looked as if he'd seen the true face of a Daedric Prince even as he'd pressed the fine robes of navy blue into her arms. The steward had intended on asking what had upset the High Justiciar so, but protocol and propriety were first and foremost in her mind, and so she had accepted her new standing—and the subsequent mission—without speaking a word.

Melanwe turned to the officer in the glass armor now—shielding her eyes from his mage-light as she did so.

"Fill me in," she said in a—hopefully—intimidating hiss she'd hastily tried to cultivate on the way over; it sounded more like the hoarse whisper of someone with a sore throat, and she made a mental note to practice further tonight.

"Celeralmo's _guest_ has failed to send any regular reports on his progress for two days now," said the officer in a clipped, much more practiced tone, barely glancing at her as he walked on. "Up until this point, he had been dispatching them twice a day. His Eminence has become highly concerned by this, and ordered us to discover the reason why." The dour look on his face twisted briefly in a smirk that did not suit him at all. "If necessary, we are also to … _persuade_ him to resume sending his charitable host the information he desires."

Melanwe knew all this, of course—Celeralmo, to his credit, had let cooler heads prevail before he'd launched into the specifics of her first mission. Still, _concerned_ was hardly the word she would have used, the Justiciar thought; _distressed_ was more like it. "Why would he keep him _here_, though, of all places?" she asked.

The officer did not blink. "Because, apparently, _he_ was the one who first _requested_ it." His eyes flicked in Melanwe's direction long enough to take in the bemused look she imagined she must be wearing. "He said the conditions suited him—reminded him of home, even."

Melanwe pulled a face, and the look the officer regaled her with seemed to say, _It sounds insane to me, too_. How any sentient creature could call a place like this _home_ was beyond the two elves' mutual capacity to comprehend.

The cave passage—already wide enough to where the soldiers could have marched four abreast at its narrowest—now widened even further, until the platoon of soldiers now stood inside a cave the size of Celeralmo's office, and whose ceiling was lost to sight in blackness. The sound of dripping water was everywhere, and magnified tenfold in the cavernous space. The only sign of decoration was the large stalagmite of porous, grayish-white rock that rose from the pool in the center of the cave, more than twice as tall as any elf, and almost three times as broad.

Several more minutes of silence passed as everyone surveyed the area. "I don't think he's here," one of the soldiers eventually said.

Melanwe _hmph_ed; that was always how things seemed at first glance, she knew. "Spread out," she said, feeling a brief shiver of pleasure at how her voice carried around the cave. _It rather suits a new Justiciar_, she thought. "Search every crack of this cave if you have to!"

The officer, however, made a guttural aside. "Celeralmo was _very insistent_ something was down here," he said, slowly and deliberately, turning for the first time to look Melanwe in the eye. He did not look happy. "The Master of the Orrery was quite certain that an _extraordinary_ account of magicka was inside this very cave."

Melanwe, not wanting to be cowed, forced herself to stare back at the officer. "Was the magicka _moving_?" she said, coolly raising an eyebrow as if to assert her superiority—if Justiciars were as grandstanding as they looked from a steward's point of view, the tactic might serve her well.

"As much as could be expected," said the officer, the corner of his mouth twitching in apparent disgust. "He's not very mobile on foot, this guest of His Eminence. He's had to rely on more _exotic_ means of … transportation … "

As the word died on the officer's lips, the taciturn expression on his face changed for the first time Melanwe had seen him. The eyes widened ever so slightly, a miniscule bubble of spit burst from his lips as his mouth hung half-open, and there was just a barely noticeable slackening in his body. All of these were very subtle changes, and unnoticeable to anyone save for a fellow soldier.

But to Melanwe, it was a sign that very, _very_ bad news was about to come. She suppressed the urge to gulp.

"Scryes—all of you!" barked the officer. "If there's even a single ant in this infernal place—one tiny grain of magicka—I want to know about it!"

Melanwe instantly cast a scrying spell, and she felt her eyes tingle as the effects took hold. The spell was designed to bypass an instance of illusion magic, suspected or otherwise, and identify the minutest form of life or magicka possible. A former Emissary to Valenwood—the same elf who had invented the spell, in fact—had once used a particularly strong one in Falinesti; within moments, every inch of bark, every animal hair, and every blade of grass, as far as he could see, was glowing with life to such a degree that his eyes had still not fully recovered from the deed.

Melanwe had not been expecting to find much else worth mentioning in this cave, other than Celeralmo's so-called "guest". So her surprise at seeing the enormous glowing blob of light _directly in front of her_ was genuine.

She jumped back several feet, hoping no one had noticed the distinctly un-Altmerish display. But everyone else's attention had been caught—or at least, those who had cast the scrye; the others resorted to staring at something that might as well have not even been there.

Melanwe waved away the scrye with a flick of her hand, intent on finding out just what exactly had happened here. The Altmer did not need much time to find out, as it happened.

She stared, equally as confused as she was agitated, at the stalagmite from before, rising from the pool like the head of some monstrous sea snake. The Justiciar walked closer, slowly but surely, as if she herself was unwilling to believe what her own eyes were seeing.

"That's not possible," she heard a soldier say. "How can a rock have _magicka?_ How can it even be _alive?!_"

Almost automatically, Melanwe felt her legs stop bare feet from the rock formation. She raised her arm, slowly, running a gloved hand across the surface of the rock, feeling the thousands of holes beneath her fingers, collapsing slightly at the touch—_collapsing?!_

She bit her lip. _Uh-oh_.

"Summon the Harbormaster at once," she said, as softly as she'd ever heard her voice sound. "We have a problem." _An enormous, earthshaking, piss-your-robes-out-of-fear problem_, some vulgar part of her brain amended.

"What would the Harbormaster know about some chunk of rock?" the officer asked irritably.

"This isn't rock," Melanwe corrected him, only seconds before she made what was, in hindsight, the most idiotic decision she could have possibly made the circumstances—and removed her glove.

* * *

_Meanwhile_

Odahviing was halfway over Lake Ilinalta when J'zargo, who had been scanning the ground below left and right for some time, suddenly gave a start.

"Over there!" he hissed. "J'zargo sees him!"

Grimnir and the others quickly tensed, and looked off Odahviing's right shoulder. They were coming up on a secluded mill on the edge of Falkreath Hold—and even from this distance, it was easy to spot the nine-foot-tall abomination that stood in the midst of the mess of flesh and bones that surrounded him.

"Everyone understand the plan?" Grimnir asked around. Everyone nodded—though it was quite clear that Onmund still had some reservations about what they were about to do. Brelyna and J'zargo, however, wore more or less the same look of grim determination. They knew how much Grimnir wanted to bring this abomination down, no matter how much his plan relied on events they'd only been speculating on mere minutes ago.

"Good." The Arch-Mage, satisfied with the response, turned to speak to Odahviing. "Get his attention."

The crimson dragon grinned. "_Yol … Toor SHUL!_" A concentrated blast of fire erupted from his jaws, speeding straight for M'Alga as quickly as any arrow, so low to the surface of the lake that chevrons of steaming water rose either side of the missile, scalding any fish unlucky enough to be in its path.

_Odahviing will go first,_ Grimnir had told everyone earlier. _M'Alga won't see him coming … but that doesn't mean he won't soon know he's here. We have to make this work from the _first move_—we won't get another chance._

The fireball exploded on the ground, gutting a nearby shed and scattering gore everywhere—but missing M'Alga by a number of feet. As Odahviing and his passengers drew nearer, Grimnir thought he could make out the blinded eyes of the monster searching the skies for where the unexpected missile had come from.

Then, as if following some unseen order—which, given the nearly invisible tether that bound M'Alga's body to his master's control, might not have been so far from the truth—he turned, and bolted southward for the end of the bridge.

Grimnir grit his teeth—this was exactly what he had been counting on. But there was no time to lose. "Second volley, Odahviing!" he quickly yelled. "Aim for the eastern half of the bridge—and don't overdo it! We need his _attention_—no destruction!"

Odahviing dipped his head in affirmation, and Shouted another fireball into existence that slammed into one side of the bridge—just seconds before M'Alga was about to cross it. So close was he to the blast that the monster actually stumbled back a few feet, and was slow to get his bearings.

Grimnir spared only enough time to see M'Alga stumbling in the opposite direction, the burns on his body just starting to regenerate, before he made his next move. "He's heading east now—good. Quickly," he urged the dragon. "Bring us over the watchtower yonder!" He pointed out a stubby cylinder of carved stone further to the south, and Odahviing immediately obeyed.

_Falkreath is only a stone's throw south from that watchtower_, Grimnir had explained. _If whoever's standing guard up there is smart, they'll consider a dragon a bigger threat to the town than M'Alga_.

_Brelyna, it'll be up to you to change their mind_.

"_Wuld … Nah KEST!_" roared Odahviing, and in the space of a second, they had hurtled past M'Alga and over where the road intersected with the main route through Falkreath. The guard in question—who Grimnir just now noticed was actually a sorcerer who had apparently claimed the place for himself—didn't have time to even bring a spell to bear before a particularly powerful calming spell, courtesy of Brelyna, hit him full in the face. The wizard's arms slumped to his sides, all tension gone from body and mind, and merely gazed back with detached calm as the dragon maneuvered to a stop over the road.

Grimnir surveyed the scene with only a detached satisfaction—M'Alga was on the run, and on the defensive. But the hard part of the plan hadn't even begun. _If we time this _precisely_ right_, he'd said, _by this time M'Alga will be just starting on his way due south for Falkreath._

_That's where I come in_.

On the other side of the road from Falkreath's watchtower lay the mountains housing the Nordic ruins of Shriekwind Bastion. The sheer rock ledges in between the two structures created a natural bottleneck; there was barely enough room for Odahviing to stretch out his wings to their fullest extent—and the dragon was descending gradually, still hovering in place, positioning himself directly between M'Alga and Falkreath.

And the monster, owing to his blindness—or perhaps, owing to the tether that bound him—did not appear to realize that he had nowhere else to go.

Grimnir waited until M'Alga had passed the watchtower—his point of no return—before he made his move.

He thought with a pang of the dragon Bahlokmaar, and the trouble that their battle had caused for Grimnir's friends. In that moment, the Arch-Mage had come to understand that he had become more than just the Dragonborn, a man feared by both mortals and dragons alike. For that single moment, he now knew he had become _loathed_ by them, hated by them. The moment would pass—and so it had—but the effects would still remain.

He had understood fear, and _terror_. Now, he would make M'Alga understand that same terror—the _fear_ he had caused for the people of Skyrim.

He took a deep breath, inhaling with each passing second as M'Alga—tirelessly sprinting toward them thanks to his Redguard blood, loss of sight be damned, obstacles ahead be damned—drew closer and closer to Falkreath.

Then, just when it felt as if his lungs would explode, Grimnir let it all out.

"_Faas … Ru MAAR!_"

The red wave boiled from his mouth, and the cloud of fear magic sped for M'Alga as fast as any of Odahviing's fireballs. The monstrosity never had a chance to dodge the Shout; every scale on his body was awash with the effects of the spell—

And then, something happened that even Grimnir could not possibly have predicted.

* * *

_Alinor_

Justiciar Melanwe and her Thalmor soldiers never knew what happened to them.

"This isn't rock," Melanwe had said only moments ago, as she removed one of the elbow-length gloves on her uniform in order to prove her point, and laying her fingers on the rough, but slightly spongy surface. "It's _coral_."

This revelation had solved half of the mystery presented to the Thalmor in the cave; they now knew the mysterious stalagmite was in fact composed of thousands upon thousands, perhaps even millions, of tiny, immobile life forms—the scrye had reacted to these life forms simply because there were so many of them in one place. Where that magicka was coming from, however, was another story.

Melanwe only had a moment's notice when it happened—not nearly enough time for her or anyone else to react. The formation of coral, which she already knew full well to not be a natural formation, began to glow a gentle bluish-green color. It started out so faintly that Melanwe did not immediately notice it, but when she did, she quickly drew her hand back—or at least, tried to, at any rate.

At precisely the same moment that she had retracted her hand, the aura of the coral spike suddenly flared a vivid, bloody-looking red. Melanwe was aware of only a deep, bell-like sound that echoed all around the cave, deafening her instantly—and then a rushing noise like a thousand waterfalls, spreading out from the coral with breathtaking speed. The force of the shockwave that followed in its wake threw every single Thalmor to the ground. Several were dashed against the cave walls like children's toys; their bodies slumped to the ground and did not move.

Melanwe was lucky. Her back had been facing the passage leading to the mouth of the cave when it happened, so instead of feeling the fatal impact of rock against unprotected flesh and bone, she merely felt herself skidding to a halt on the rocky ground of the cave, worn smooth by runoff from the shoreline outside. The landing was still excruciatingly painful; Melanwe heard something crack in her body more than once before she came to a stop, and it was a long time before she could bring herself to force her eyes open through the agony.

When she did, however, she wished she _hadn't_.

The sight she was seeing before her was _impossible_; she was back on the streets of Alinor—but _this_ Alinor was not the city she remembered. It was burning and broken; the shimmering blades of the buildings that scraped the sky were rusted and crumbling, half-collapsed from the raging inferno around her. Screams and tormented cries echoed all around Melanwe, and she could not tell if they were those of her men, or her own imagination.

A shadow moved across her at that moment, and her terrified eyes flickered towards it, distracted; a monstrous wolf, half as tall again as her, and many times as broad, with rippling muscles and ripping claws that looked as if they could cleave through armor like paper. The lupine abomination walked on two legs like a man, and its ears were higher and longer than any she had seen on any wolf—they almost looked like _horns_—

The wolf-thing was above her now, straddling her helpless form, its snout mere inches away from her face—Melanwe saw the misshapen maw of the beast open wide, revealing dozens of fangs—too much to fit in an ordinary mouth, and filthy to a one with blood and viscera—the stink of the monster was overpowering—

A scream tore through the air as the wolf-thing descended upon her with a bellowing growl—and suddenly Melanwe's eyes shot open as she sat bolt upright, pain tearing through her torso and her throat as her own piercing shriek died on her lips, and echoed in the cave.

It took a very long time for Justiciar Melanwe to understand that what she had seen just then was an illusion, and longer still to notice that she had regained consciousness in the arms of several soldiers who were attempting to heal her. Her entire body was shaking uncontrollably in terror, and even this made the pain course through her.

_What in the name of Auriel just happened?_ Melanwe thought amidst the agony. That vision … the fear in her eyes … it had all felt so _real_ …

Her eyes flitted weakly to the coral pillar, still standing there as if nothing had happened. _Had that been the cause of everything?_ Melanwe tried to raise her hand—the one not covered by a glove—but could not. The pain in her sides and back was too intense; she could barely wiggle a finger, never mind her arm.

_Did I trigger it somehow? Was it me?_

It was not, of course, though Melanwe would not find that out until much later. And unbeknownst to the Justiciar, or any of the soldiers in the cave with her, they had not been the only ones to feel the effects of the spell—and the effects themselves were more far-reaching than anyone ensnared by them could have anticipated.

_Almost_ anyone.

* * *

One such victim was the furthest removed from everything that had taken place so far on Tamriel—both in the Isles and in Skyrim—but only in matters of physical presence; everything that had happened in either province up to this point had happened according to _him_. The remnants of the Black Worm cult had proven a valuable asset, and perhaps would yet prove beneficial again, but at present, their usefulness to him had ended as soon as they had helped to unleash his creation into the world.

There had been setbacks in his plan, yes, but they had all been accounted for, and contingency plans had been concocted for each one—some of them had even advanced his grand scheme just a bit further. The emergence of the Dragonborn's power in the Windhelm had been one such development; through the eyes of his creation, he had seen and felt the effects of that power, and knew immediately that it would be useful to him when the time was right.

_It will not do to be unprepared, yes_, he thought.

Then the shockwave hit.

To an outsider—and perhaps, indeed, to anyone else who did not possess his magickal prowess—the event went unnoticed, a mere puff of wind in the storm that buffeted the jagged cliff on which he stood. So far removed was he from the epicenter of the same blast that had leveled Melanwe and her subordinates that he remained standing where he was, only swaying a fraction of an inch, too little for the naked eye to make out. It took a great deal to move him, after all—indeed, few natural forces in the world could do such a thing; only the most advanced of arcane magics could move him in such a way.

But he was not immune to the shockwave's effects—and the vision that entered his mind he immediately deduced to be one of these effects: an ancient mask of solid gold, imbued with far more ancient power. He thought he saw movement behind the mask—perhaps an eye, or a whole face?—but before he could study the vision in further detail, it had dissipated, and the shockwave had passed.

He remained there, on the edge of the cliffs that he called home, as the gale raged on around him. A corner of his mind had a passing awareness of one wave after the next crashing into the precipice—eroding it, dragging it bit by bit into the frothing waters. None of the chaos around him, however, could compare to what was beginning to unravel inside of his mind.

He was very disturbed, now—and not just by the strange vision he had witnessed. _This was not foreseen in the plan, no_, he thought. It was the one event, however large, however small, that he had failed to take into account. And the vision as well—so simple, and yet so discomforting. He wondered, briefly, if this had been predicted as well—not by his own machinations, but by the artifact that had inspired his grand scheme in the first place.

With a brief effort of will, he reached into the depths of his mind, and in doing so discovered something else he had not taken into account: the tether had disappeared. The spell he had cast upon his creation, and bound him, commanding him to return to his side, had been disrupted by this shockwave somehow.

_Then he has been affected too, yes_, he said to himself.

But this did not perturb him as much as before; that particular spell was far more than just a simple conjurer's tether, and as far as he knew, he was the only being alive who had the skills to cast such an enchantment. It had never been intended to force a thrall to act against their will—but extenuating circumstances on that vessel of the Emperor of Tamriel, and the damage his creation had sustained there, had necessitated a slight change in his plans.

The link between them could be reestablished, yes—but the process would require too much time, and at any rate, it had long since served his purpose. For all intents and purposes, he was alone now—_but perhaps_, he mused, as a sudden thought occurred to him, _not for long, no_. Though the problem had not been anticipated, that did not make it unsolvable—and there was a simple enough solution to _this_.

Yes, he thought as he moved at last—for the first time in what had felt like ages—perhaps it was time to behold this Dragonborn for himself.

Personally.

He reached into the depths of his mind without worry—he had known this step of his plan would arrive sooner or later, where he would eventually have to reveal his face to the world at large. There was no need to worry about the consequences of reckless actions; nothing would be lost at this point from advancing his plans just a little bit further.

His body gave a shudder as he forcibly wrenched the majority of his consciousness—along with a comparatively small portion of his magicka—from the physical shell that contained them. The magic of astral projection was only one of the few methods of transport left to him, but the discomfort it tended to cause him did not earn it his favor. There were less annoying methods of traveling, he was aware—and more convincing ways to prove a point as well. This, however, would suffice for the moment.

In an instant, earth and sky burst forth from the horizon as he felt his mind racing across the sea, unburdened by the limitations of his body. He concentrated harder and harder as precious seconds passed like the waves below—he sought a source of magicka much like his own, both in its resonance and in its strength—

_There_.

Another effort of will adjusted his course slightly northwards. It would take time to reach his destination, he knew. And though he was not especially fearful of either the gods or the Daedra, he nevertheless believed that a little bit of divine intervention might be in order. For the moment, the events he had set in motion were beyond his control.

_It is all up to him now … yes …_

* * *

M'Alga, meanwhile, had never felt so helpless in his life.

Losing his sight had been bad enough. The regenerative powers granted by his Argonian blood had done little good; they had healed on the outside, but on the _inside_ lay a different story entirely. Some of the slivers that remained of the barrel that the infernal cat-mage had exploded in his face had lodged in his eyes with such force that they had buried into his skull, and damaged the most vital parts of M'Alga's eyes to such an extent that no amount of regeneration could ever fully heal them. The only thing his damaged eyes had been able to see was a shifting mess of tiny dots—some light, others dark, still others with just a hint of color, but none of them staying in the same spot for even a moment. It was completely lacking in both form and order.

M'Alga's other senses had fared slightly better, though—_slightly_. The rounded membranes under his temples that served as his ears had been mostly shielded from the blast, though the intensity of the shockwave had left him temporarily deafened as well as blind—and his nose had caught the full blast of the explosion as well; he wouldn't be able to smell a thing for some time.

For these reasons, M'Alga had initially been forced to rely on other methods to make good his escape. The magickal link that his master had graciously created for his benefit had proven useful, but as M'Alga had learned aboard the Emperor's ship, even such expertly manipulated magic tended to take the path of least resistance; for all its strengths, it was little more than a glorified compass, only providing him a sense of direction.

And that had served him well enough, for a time—enough to carry him to the borders of Falkreath Hold. The abandoned mill he had happened upon had a shed full to bursting with fresh kills; M'Alga had stopped here to devour a few, under the hope that the sustenance he gained from consuming the bodies of the deceased would strengthen his regeneration further still, and restore his senses to the point that he could function on his own, if worst came to worst.

As it turned out, that was exactly what had happened: shortly after he'd finished devouring the corpse of a bear, M'Alga's recently healed ears had picked up the unmistakable sound of wingbeats from far away, long and deep, and heading directly for him—the kind only made by dragons. And there was only one dragon he'd ever met.

M'Alga had known that he was far from his full strength thanks to his lack of eyesight—and so he'd made a run for it—narrowly missing a searing fireball from the crimson dragon coming right up behind him. He felt his bare claws touch the cobblestones of a road, and without a second thought he'd turned and sprinted westward—

—when suddenly, a _second_ fireball exploded from out of nowhere, and actually _thrown him off his feet_ and onto the road from how closely the blast had occurred to him. The entire front side of his body had suffered blistering burns, and had the situation been even _slightly_ different, M'Alga would have roared in pain.

But as it was, the pain was the last thing on his mind—even as the burns disappeared beneath his regeneration magic, M'Alga's mind was a million miles away, and racing as if Molag Bal himself was in pursuit.

_What had just happened?_ The question became a mantra as he turned and ran in the opposite direction. Had the Dragonborn become wise to the secrets of his master—did they know about the tether that bound them together?

_Or _—a more unsettling thought occurred to him—_are they truly predicting every move I make?_

M'Alga felt the tether nudging him further south, then, and he wondered if perhaps his master sensed that he was being pursued by formidable foes. He could feel himself getting stronger by the moment—but in all the wrong places. Until M'Alga could find a place to make a stand—preferably someplace that wasn't in Skyrim—then there was nothing he could do but run—

_"Faas … Ru MAAR!"_

_What?!_

The shout had come from _directly in front of him _—M'Alga had had no time to react. The next thing he knew, a sensation like millions of tiny needles had rushed over his body in the time it took to draw breath.

An instant later, the formless chaos that constituted M'Alga's vision shaped itself into a sight that, in a first, left him speechless in awe: a great golden dragon, half as large again as the red dragon who bowed to the Dragonborn, radiating with power and flames to rival the ancient furnaces of the dwarves. He saw in his mind's eye the burning gaze of the beast, and knew it was looking down at him.

M'Alga felt his strength leaving him as he continued to stare down the dragon, and it bared fangs of transitory flame at him in an unmistakable gesture of primal hatred. The monster was so entranced by his own fear that he did not immediately grasp the reason as to the failure of his strength. But soon the vision began to fade, and at first M'Alga cried out in horror—for all the terrifying sights he'd just seen, the most horrible of all had already come to pass, and the mages of Winterhold had made sure that it was all he would ever see again.

Then the deeper meaning behind the sudden loss of his strength hit him, and even as he reached out with his mind, to seek the master he knew he could no longer reach, he felt his fear rise in his throat to choke him a second time. _He could no longer feel the tether_—the one remaining link he had to his master had been severed!

Forgetting his fear, forgetting his injuries, M'Alga let loose an animal roar of primal fury, unlike any he'd ever made before. _They did this to me_, he seethed. Somehow, the mages had known of the tether—removing it had been their intention in fighting him all along!

But just as M'Alga's anger augmented further still as he made the connection, a modicum of calm passed over him. He'd lost a great deal of strength—that much was true. But the tether, for however long it had lasted, had still provided him with plenty of strength to subside on. If he was careful, and made no unnecessarily foolish decisions in using it, it still might help him to reunite with his master.

And there was also the _fail-safe_. Yes—the ten necromancers that had been sacrificed to create him had not been any _ordinary_ necromancers. Each of them had been given a very specific piece of information—only one—and as they were absorbed into the Dwemer machinery of Mzurkunch, their bodies and minds had become one with M'Alga's own. He now knew that information as precisely as they once had—the geography and infrastructure of the entire province, and of the location of each of the targets he had been assigned to eliminate.

Most importantly of all, however, M'Alga knew what was to take place if the connection between him and his master would be severed. And the mere thought of such an event coming to pass, despite everything that he had been through, made him very excited … and very, very _happy_.

Because he knew it had already happened. The gears were no longer beginning to turn—but M'Alga knew he was only meant to start a scheme far bigger than him. His master operated in such secrecy that even the Black Worm knew little of it, so therefore he did not know much more than they did. Even so, M'Alga had assimilated enough of the necromancers' memories to understand the staggering scope of the events to come.

But he would dwell upon it later. For now, he knew that he simply stayed where he was, then he wouldn't be around to see the results of his master's grand plan. He needed to find a safe place—an _open_ place, where he could greet his master without fear of reprisal.

So he suppressed his glee and his anticipation, and ran eastward with renewed strength that had little to do with the Redguard blood flowing through his veins, making him the tireless juggernaut he was created to be. He concentrated every last ounce of his will on his ears and nose, and the stones of the road on the soles of his feet, determined to be reunited with his creator at last.

He _is coming_, he thought. _I will receive him with open arms, and deliver him the ultimate prize … the Dragonborn._

* * *

The man in question was, at the moment, still reeling from the unexpected effects his Shout had created; aside from M'Alga himself, he had been the closest to the epicenter of the resulting shockwave, and because his senses were—for the most part—undamaged, the aftereffects were strongest for him.

Grimnir still vividly remembered the vision he had seen in that moment, even after what had happened afterwards; in his horror, he had leapt back, forgetting in his haste that he was still on Odahviing's back … and toppled off before his companions could even think to grab for him.

Luckily, Odahviing had felt his rider slipping, and had barely managed to catch him by the ankle before Grimnir was about to face a fifty-foot-drop onto the unrelenting stone ledges below. For a few moments that felt as long as any Era, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold had dangled helplessly from the mouth of the red dragon—his foot wedged in a gap between two of Odahviing's fangs—and roaring in pain all the while. Odahviing's expert maneuver had come at a price: the Arch-Mage had felt his ankle twist painfully inside his mount's jaws, and the force of his catch had left him with a badly sprained knee and what felt like a number of muscle tears in his entire right leg.

"Nothing to be walking on for a while," Brelyna remarked as she healed Grimnir, after he'd been hauled back onto Odahviing's neck after an agonizingly long minute. The dragon had been forced to land to give Brelyna an opportunity to concentrate, and a very white-in-the-face Onmund had dismounted the dragon. No one had raised any objections; on top of the very narrow miss, Grimnir knew the Nord did not take well to dragons, and likely less so to actually riding one.

Fortunately, she said, his injuries were not too bad, "though they could have been much worse," she said, hands still shaking even as they applied healing magic to Grimnir's wounds. The tears were treatable, she'd informed him, and sealed up under the Telvanni's care after only a few seconds. "But these bones will have to be set back by hand; I'm not so adept at alteration that I can do it telekinetically."

"Then let this one help." J'zargo leapt up from behind Brelyna, paws raised, but with no magickal glow to them. Before anyne could stop him, Grimnir briefly felt the soft pads of J'zargo's paw touch his knee and ankle—and then bellowed in pain again as the Khajiit deftly _twisted_ his wrists—

—and then it was over. The pain was gone—mostly; Grimnir could still feel twinges in his leg.

"There is need to thank J'zargo." The Khajiit was grinning like a lunatic—though there was no mistaking the concern in his beady eyes. "But you must rest yourself, friend. This one has only rid you of the pain—your leg no longer has the strength it did before. The leg must be allowed to heal on its own time."

Grimnir groaned—partially out of the remnants of the discomfort that still irked him, partially out of the setback they had just been dealt. "What about M'Alga?" he asked. "We can't just stay here—we're wasting time! We have to catch up with him!"

"An easy enough task," soothed J'zargo, paw on Grimnir's shoulder. "Khajiit saw him heading east along the road yonder." He swept a paw along the northern slopes of Shriekwind Bastion, and Grimnir felt his heart rise—his plan had succeeded thus far; he'd bought Falkreath more time to mobilize, and perhaps even prevented M'Alga from passing through the city outright.

J'zargo, meanwhile, put a claw to his mustache, twirling it absentmindedly as a pensive look came over him. "This one must beg the question, however, as to what M'Alga saw that would make him run away so quickly."

Grimnir sat bolt upright as it all came coming back to him—the Shout he'd cast, and the vision he had seen. "No … I felt it, too," he said. "Somehow … when my Shout hit M'Alga, something sent it back at me … made me see an illusion as well. But … "

He felt a lump in his throat; he could not go on.

Brelyna leaned in close. "What did you see?" she asked quietly, gently. "Was it Alduin again?"

The black visage of the dragon god, fresh in the mind's eye of the Arch-Mage, briefly flitted across his vision before he slowly nodded his reply. "But there was something else, though," he said, as the second part of the apparition coalesced in his memory. "I think it might have been a _face_ … but I can't be sure … "

"Why?"

Grimnir looked the mages in the eye. "If it was a face … then it was like no face I've ever seen in my life—it wasn't a human face, or a dragon's. The mouth was too wide, and the head too round—too flat. I couldn't tell you for the life of me who or _what_ it might be—I'm not even sure if there's _anything_ on Tamriel with a face like that."

"Except for M'Alga," J'zargo said.

But Grimnir shook his head. "No. This wasn't M'Alga's face, either." He took a breath to calm his nerves further still. "Whatever I saw just then … it scared me more than M'Alga, and more than anything I've ever seen. And I'm including the first time I saw Alduin with my own eyes."

Brelyna and J'zargo traded looks; Grimnir seldom went into details about that fateful day in Last Seed; he had preferred to keep most of his life's story to himself. But for the vision he'd seen today to eclipse even that first encounter of the World-Eater … it sounded as though Grimnir had seen more than just his worst fear—he'd looked into the face of death itself.

A sound from behind and below them made everyone jump. The three mages looked round to see Onmund standing beside Odahviing's leathery wing, holding a long carved stick in his hands.

"The sorcerer up there had a staff with him," he explained with a little smile, lifting his thumb to the tower behind him. "He's still standing up there, still as a statue. He didn't even wave at me when I took this from right in front of him."

Brelyna's face flushed in a rare show of pride at Onmund's compliment of her skill in illusion.

Onmund, meanwhile, removed the sash on his robes, and tore it down the middle into strips, and Grimnir understood what he was doing, and where Onmund had been gone all this time, even before the Nord took the staff and wrapped it in a splint around his injured leg.

"It isn't much," he said as he finished tying off the last of the lashings, "but it might be enough to help you get around for a while—at least until we get you to a proper healer."

Grimnir felt a sudden burst of admiration for Onmund well up inside him, and a part of him hoped that he wasn't shedding any tears at the selfless act Onmund had done, dragons and Dragonborn be damned—but it was a very small part of him.

He felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile—the first time he'd smiled for all of today. "Come on," he said to Onmund, holding out his hand to help the Nord climb back on. "We've still got a plan to carry out."

He patted Odahviing's horn. "Fly us over Shriekwind," he instructed the dragon. "High enough so we can see M'Alga—but that he won't see us coming. If my Shout worked the way I hope it did, I think we disrupted that tether of his long enough to have bought us some time to catch up with him."

"_Geh, thuri!_" bellowed Odahviing. With a beat of his wings, he began to take off.

"The faster we can close in, the better!" Brelyna remarked to Grimnir as they became airborne once more. "There's something bothering me about all this—and I'm worried it might have made things more difficult for us all."

* * *

A few moments later saw the mages cresting the summit of Shriekwind Bastion in a rapid climb, and once Grimnir's heart had started to sink back into his chest, he turned to Brelyna. "So, what's bothering you?"

"Have you ever stopped to wonder why that tether showed up in Mzulft at all?" the Dunmer asked him, her eyes glowing with scrying magic as she and J'zargo searched the road below. "Didn't it seem strange to you that the Oculory was able to detect it in the first place?"

Grimnir had to admit it had seemed strange to him at the time—although, as he told Brelyna, he had chalked it up to the fact that this spell was being cast over a completely different continent. Any spell cast over so far of a distance, he claimed, needed an extraordinary amount of magicka—even if it was the (relatively) simple act of controlling a necromantic thrall.

"Not as much magicka as you might think," corrected Brelyna. "Normally, when I cast a scrye to detect the life forces of the living or the undead, I see every sign of life or un-life around, above, and below me, up to a certain distance away. But if you know how to control this scrye, you can focus it more accurately—aim it in a specific direction—and in doing so, you've got a longer distance to work with. That's how I was able to pick up the life force of that sorcerer in that tower, even when we were over Lake Ilinalta—some Telvanni masters were such masters at scryes that they could count the individual larvae of any one kwama nest in the whole of Morrowind."

"So it has more to do with awareness than the strength of the spell?" said Grimnir.

"Mostly—you aren't wrong about needing a lot of magicka to cast a spell over such a long distance—but even then, I'm almost certain wouldn't have been picked up by the Oculory." She turned to look at Grimnir, eyes still glowing.

"That only leaves one other possibility," she said. "M'Alga's tether was more than just a simple conjurer's bond. Considering that the Oculory was able to detect it in the first place, I'm willing to guess that a great deal of magicka was being transferred to M'Alga through that tether."

Grimnir's mouth fell open. _Someone was boosting M'Alga's magickal reserves—and from so far away?!_ "But—how? That would take even more magicka than simply controlling him!"

"Exactly." The worried look in Brelyna's eyes was visible even through her scrye. "That's what's bothering me. No one has that much magicka in their body—nothing does. It'd be too much for a mortal body to handle for very long. In fact, the only time I can think of where that much magicka was gathered in one place is—"

"—the Eye of Magnus," Grimnir finished for her, feeling a chill sink into his insides as the ramifications of her explanation sank in. He now knew they had vastly underestimated the power of the Black Worm—and of M'Alga.

"If I hadn't Shouted at him, and disrupted that tether … " he said hoarsely.

Brelyna finished his sentence this time. "M'Alga would have more power in his claws than any single wizard in all of Tamriel." She shuddered. "Grimnir, we have to stop him. Now. Forget your plan—forget containing him, forget stopping him from killing any more people. He _has_ to _die_—not just to save Tamriel, but to save all of _Nirn_."

Grimnir exhaled, feeling now that his quest to stop M'Alga now looked insurmountable. But there was one last question that vexed him. "How did my Shout disrupt that tether in the first place?" he asked his companions. "And more importantly, how come it didn't affect any of you—why just me and M'Alga?"

Brelyna frowned, and sighed—and Grimnir's heart sank. "I have no idea," she said. "I can't even begin to think how that might have happened. It could have been the result of any one of a million different circumstances—or just random chance. There's no way to know for sure."

"It's an old magic," Onmund remarked from behind her. "There's still a lot we don't know about the Voice. Especially … " His face paled slightly, and his eyes flicked to Grimnir for a fraction of an instant, and he did not finish his sentence. There was no need to.

Desperate to change the subject, the Arch-Mage tapped J'zargo on the shoulder. "Have you found anything yet?"

The Khajiit shook his head. "This one can find nothing. M'Alga is moving faster than he was before—he is no longer on the eastern road."

Onmund was dumbstruck. "Is it possible he was able to heal his injuries—even restore his sight?"

"There are other senses to rely on," J'zargo said. "And we cannot rule out that he could be rebound to his master's bond at any time."

Brelyna, however, wasn't so pessimistic. "Even if Grimnir was able to sever the link, M'Alga has enough magicka to outlast an whole platoon of Imperial battlemages," she said. "That might make him more powerful, but it also makes him stand out that much more. I wouldn't be surprised if even my _weakest_ scrying spell could find him right now."

She suddenly tensed. "And I think it just did," she smirked. "He's right past that cabin—in the clearing, up ahead!" She pointed ahead and slightly to the right of Odahviing; Grimnir could only make out the top of a smoking chimney among a copse of pine trees. "It looks like he's starting to head south again—he's not following the road!"

Grimnir clenched a fist—that was what he'd been counting on. The only city in this part of Skyrim was what little remained of Helgen. "Follow him, Odahviing," he cried, "and stay on him! I don't want him heading anywhere that isn't southeast!" The dragon obeyed, and made a sweeping turn that brought him so low to the ground that his scaled underbelly brushed the treetops above the cabin Brelyna had identified.

Onmund, meanwhile, looked his confusion. "South_east_?"

"Trust me," Grimnir told him. "For this plan of mine to work, I _want_ M'Alga to think we're letting him go—but I want to make it look believable. We'll keep hot on his heels, and keep him heading southeast until I say so—I know a place where we can lure him into, trap him, and hopefully for good. And he might _think_ it's a way out."

He smiled. "But I know better."

"There he is!" J'zargo called out, pointing directly ahead. Grimnir followed his claw, and _saw_. _Yes_—there was no mistaking the scaly form of that monstrosity.

"Odahviing," he said, "make every last breath of your flame count. M'Alga's going to know we're back on his tail from the onset. And with the magicka he has, he could turn invisible at any time—so Brelyna, I need you scrying at all times. Don't let him out of your sight!" The Dunmer nodded.

J'zargo laughed. "Ha! This one can see the spikes of his tail now!"

Grimnir grinned—that was close enough. "Odahviing … he's all yours!"

"_Zu'u fen nir_," said Odahviing. "At once, _thuri_. _Yol … Toor SHUL!_"

The fireball that blossomed from the dragon's mouth was a thing of beauty, and all too fleeting for it, Grimnir thought. In a moment's time, it had sped for M'Alga—and exploded just behind and to his right, causing the monster to stumble, but he continued running onward.

"Good work!" yelled Grimnir, seemingly unperturbed by the arrow miss. "He's heading for that ledge—see if you can't get him to go around it!"

But even as Odahviing let fly his next flaming blast, M'Alga made a flying leap—his powerful legs, Orcish muscle, and Redguard's stamina propelling him higher and farther than any mortal man could ever hope to jump—and landed atop the ledge with a roll as Odahviing's attack exploded harmlessly against the cliff.

The monster paused just long enough for Grimnir to see the ugly head looking almost directly at him—was it his imagination, he wondered, or was M'Alga _smirking_ at him?—and then M'Alga's form began to fade from view.

_He's turning invisible again._ "Brelyna!"

"I'm on it!" The dark elf's eyes glowed yet again, and they roved here and there for a few moments before she spoke again. "He's passing that ruined house up there!" she cried, pointing to a smoldering wreck of a shack, blackened by fire Grimnir knew full well was not due to an accident. _Here's hoping M'Alga doesn't know that_.

"We're close now!" he urged them. "Odahviing—there's a fork in the path up ahead! Force him to turn _right!_"

The dragon nodded his understanding. "_Yol … Toor SHUL!_" Flames burst from his jaws yet again—and again they barely missed M'Alga, blackening the route leading further east just as M'Alga reached the fork in question. The monster leapt back from the explosion and darted down the other path, further south.

Grimnir clenched his fist in triumph—there was only one place M'Alga could go now. _We've got him_. "This is where things get interesting," he said. "Odahviing, listen closely. The rest of you, get ready to dismount!"

Odahviing began to descend as Grimnir explained his next move. The Arch-Mage saw, for just a moment, the mouth of a small cave at the edge of his vision—and he thought, for just a moment, that he saw a ripple of distorted air disappearing into the blackness beyond …

* * *

M'Alga did not stop running until he felt the glare of the sun disappearing from his face, and the dirt beneath his feet rapidly replaced by slices of smooth, worn rock—stairs, he instantly knew, and then these led to a longer, smoother surface of stone—he was inside the cave.

He stopped here to catch a breath, and commend his good fortune. This would be the perfect place for him to renew his strength, he thought to himself, especially after the unexpectedly fierce pursuit that the Dragonborn and his companions had subjected him to.

_They are determined to keep me from him_. Too determined, even, he was aware—the Dragonborn had been so caught up in chasing him down that neither he nor his friends had even stopped to consider that every move he made—every leap and every dodge of it—had been calculated from the beginning.

And the best part was that they had not noticed him when it mattered most—when he had entered the cave, still invisible, and leapt behind the nearest sizable rock he could find to camouflage him completely. He heard the low whoosh of air, of the bothersome red dragon soaring over the cave and to the south. No doubt they were under the belief he was trapped in here, he smirked, waiting for him to come out.

_Even the simplest act of folly on their part_, he could almost hear his master saying, _will lead to their undoing, yes_. The words in his head sounded so cloud and clear that for a moment, M'Alga wondered if that really _had_ been his imagination talking—his master was not above such displays of magic, after all.

M'Alga waited a few minutes longer before he was certain that none of the mages had followed him on foot—not that he was expecting them to; even the Dragonborn knew better than to engage him one-on-one. He finally moved out from behind the rock, then, and allowed his scales to resume their normal iridescent colors with a brief thought.

That was when the smell hit him—and almost instantly after that, he heard the noises from directly ahead. M'Alga immediately recognized both of these extremely unpleasant sensations—the kind of odor most likely to be found in a disused chamber-pot, and the gruff, snuffling noises associated with the languages of the borderline intelligent.

He'd encountered the common troll once before, in the swamplands north of Morthal, though had never had the opportunity to fight any; they had recognized him as a threat—unlike the chaurus, who recognized everything that moved as food—and were at least smart enough to run away at first sight. These trolls, however, sounded different from those in the swamps; they sounded bigger, he thought, and therefore meaner and possibly more intelligent—or, at any rate, intelligent enough that they _wouldn't _see him as a threat.

M'Alga smirked as he listened to the noises of the troll—yes, it sounded like there was just the one, though it was difficult to tell with how the cave echoed. He couldn't _see_ the troll, of course, but he wasn't particularly worried—a troll, no matter how big or stupid, was a match for him.

He walked further into the cave—listening all the while to the sound of the troll. M'Alga didn't bother with the element of surprise this time; there would be no camouflage, no other method of stealth, just him, the troll, and the difference of brute force between them. He wondered idly how much noise he was making, and how long it would take for the troll to hear him among all the echoes of the cave.

Suddenly, the noises and grunts stopped, and so did M'Alga; the troll was close by, he was sure, but no sense of sight made it impossible to tell whether the troll had sensed him, or something else.

Then—footfalls. Slow, shambling, and heavy—and most importantly, heading right for him.

M'Alga tensed, bringing his entire body into an attack stance as the troll approached him, bellowing all the while and stamping its feet. The abomination could almost imagine the ugly furred head of the beast leering at him as it charged, all three eyes of the hulking thing narrowed in primitive rage—

He listened intently for the footfalls—they were thirty feet away—twenty now—ten—

M'Alga turned on his heel, and swung low and out with his massive tail in a full circle as the troll bellowed a war cry. That war cry promptly turned into a sort of yelping noise as the spikes of the monster's tail wrapped around the troll's legs, and unseated him completely. The cave shook as it landed on its back, too stupid to realize what had just happened.

M'Alga wasted no time in planting a gigantic foot right on the troll's face; he felt the teeth of the beast crushed to powder beneath his heel before it plowed through flesh, bone, and brain matter as though it wasn't even there. The troll jerked briefly as its head was mashed to pulp under M'Alga's foot, and lay still.

The abomination walked on, then, not even bothering to feed upon the fresh carcass of the troll. From what M'Alga could smell, it had befouled itself upon dying, and he was not about to take chances as to whether or not the troll had smelled like that naturally. Nothing would be gained from devouring it.

He walked on, letting his ears guide him, and he felt the ground rise up beneath him in a sharp slope. The air was much colder around him—and what was more, M'Alga could even feel a dusting of fresh snow under his feet. He smiled in satisfaction; he'd found the other way out. All that was left to do was follow that snow, and follow the frigid breeze blowing on his face—

Suddenly he felt his face simultaneously awash in heat and cold as he reached the mouth of the cavern, and stepped out into the sunlight of Skyrim. The snow was much deeper here; M'Alga had the impression that if his eyes were still working, he would see himself standing on the ledge of a great mountain, perhaps even within climbing distance of the summit itself.

He felt his footclaws brush more stairs, and began to climb them six at a time, hardly winded at all.

Suddenly, the sunlight falling on M'Alga's scales dimmed suddenly, but only for a moment; it felt as though a shadow had briefly fallen across him, blocking out the sun for the slightest fraction of an instant. Probably a bird that flew across the sun, he thought.

But something was odd. His ears could not hear any birds at all—not even a single note of their song. It was a lot colder up here, to be sure, but hawks could still make their nests in places like this. Perhaps a passing cloud? But that wasn't likely either, clouds never moved so fast unless they had

And then he heard a sound, somewhere from off to his left—like stone against stone, a smaller rock crumbling and striking a larger rock as it fell … as if something had dislodged it from its place in the earth.

He felt a sudden chill.

The sudden stone-on-stone noise came a second time, and this time it was much closer: just off to his right, and … high above him?

M'Alga turned in a full circle, his arms tensed and ready to lash out at a moment's notice. He started to wonder if he had been mistaken, if that really had been a bird or a cloud that had passed over him—

And then he felt his tail brush the bones.

The abomination froze, not daring to move a muscle as his mind began to piece it all together. That hadn't been a bird he'd sensed—or a cloud. It was faster and larger than both of them—enough to crush the rock beneath it like it was nothing more than dried earth.

M'Alga realized at that moment he had made a fatal mistake. He turned to run back down the cave, heedless of what might be awaiting him at the entrance. But his split-second flicker of fear had already cost him.

He only made it a handful of paces before the dragon—perched hawklike on the crumbled arch only ten feet off to the monster's right—dipped its scaly neck in a graceful swoop and caught him in its jaws. M'Alga had no time to scream as he felt an oppressively humid darkness consume him headfirst, followed by the searing, unearthly pain of both his arms and legs ripped from his body in a single powerful bite. He only had a split-second's sensation of the bones and muscles splintering and tearing against the maw of the beast as it lifted his limbless torso aloft.

And then came the fire.

* * *

At that moment, outside the cave known to most of Falkreath as Bonechill Passage, Grimnir heard the shrieking roar of the lone resident of the peak that lay beyond the other, less explored entrance to the cavern, and knew his plan had worked.

_Odahviing, I haven't visited this place in a while—it may be long enough that someone's moved in and called the place home. Find out if that's true—and if it is, see if you can't persuade him._

"That's our cue," he said to the three mages. "Let's go inside—quickly. Odahviing—once we're out on the other side, will you extend my thanks to the dragon atop Ancient's Ascent? He's helped to slay a powerful enemy to the world."

"Hmm, perhaps not in so many words, _thuri_," grunted the red dragon with a lopsided smirk. "He did what every dragon does when prey wanders into his lair. But I will tell him. _Zu'u fent aam_. I will meet you there."

But Grimnir and the others were already inside the cave before the dragon had even spread his wings.

"Did you _know_ there was going to be a dragon up there, Grimnir?" Onmund asked as they made their way through the cave. Even through his huffing and puffing, his tone sounded slightly accusatory.

"That's the problem with dragons," Grimnir shrugged back in reply, wincing every other step as he limped along on his splinted leg. "You never know when you're going to meet one. Besides," he added, "even if there wasn't one up there, I would've had Odahviing roast him to death anyway. This cave is so narrow that M'Alga would've had nowhere to go—and Odahviing's fire is probably strong enough that it might well have caved this place in completely. M'Alga was damned either way."

Onmund's eyes widened. "So you were trying to lure him here from the beginning? That's what that plan of yours was all about?"

Grimnir nodded, and only barely succeeded in concealing the note of pride in the beaming look Onmund gave him back. "I've got to hand it to you," the Nord mage said, "no one knows dragons better than you do. I just don't know whether that's because everyone else is too scared or too smart to not even bother trying to outshine you."

It was a sign of Grimnir's elation at the moment that the pain in his legs seemed only a passing hindrance right now, and he gave a genuine laugh at Onmund's backhanded compliment. He rubbed the back of his scarred head in some embarrassment, and managed a simple, awkward, but nonetheless heartfelt, " … Thank you."

They gave the mangled remains of the troll M'Alga had recently killed a wide berth as they climbed to the top of the cave. There was no real urgency, under the circumstances: M'Alga might have been an extremely formidable opponent, but there was no possible way that he had what it took to slay a dragon. Only Grimnir had that honor.

They reached the exit of the passage, only slightly winded, just in time to see the gray-scaled dragon before them belch a column of flame into the air—and in its mouth lay a mangled, bloodied torso, armless and legless, stuck head first into the flaming gullet of the dragon, roasted to a sizzling mass of blackened flesh in an instant.

The arms and legs of M'Alga lay beneath in a ring of blood as the dragon continued to gorge itself on the monster's charred torso, chewing noisily with the noise of splintering bones. The abomination had evidently been too large for the dragon to eat in a single gulp, as was often the case with bears, trolls, saber cats, and unfortunate adventurers.

Brelyna pulled a face. "Ugh," she grimaced as the dragon scooped up the rest of M'Alga's limbs in a single movement. "I'm glad Odahviing's the one to be thanking him. I wouldn't wish a death like this on _anyone_."

Onmund and J'zargo stood behind her, watching in mortified fascination from a safe distance away. It was almost impossible to tell which of the two looked greener than the other.

Odahviing alighted on the ledge next to them, surveying the grisly scene with a detached satisfaction. "It is done," he said, his rumbling voice unusually heavy. "_Alok-dilon kiin mahlaan_."

Grimnir felt something inside him smolder—not the inferno he so disliked, but more muted and smothered. At long last, M'Alga had been finally destroyed, and for that he thanked the Divines … and yet, the Arch-Mage did not feel relieved—not one bit. He had saved Skyrim from a terrible threat, perhaps even the world beyond, but it had come at a cost so great it felt insurmountable. The Emperor of Tamriel was dead, a Jarl of Skyrim had been brutally slain, and Grimnir did not want to know how many people had been killed simply because they'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Odahviing crawl up next to him. "_Dah ro fus, thuri_," he said sagely. "_Dahmaan rotte se Wuth Gein._ It is in your nature to change the balance of the forces in this world, for better or worse. _Hi drey ni folaas_. You only did what needed to be done—nothing more, nothing less."

"I still wish I'd been the one to kill him," muttered Grimnir, as the dragon swallowed the last remaining bits of M'Alga in a single gulp. "I feel like … it would have made everything worth it to me, in the end."

"_Wen rotte?_" inquired Odahviing. "_Kro uv dovah?_ The sorcerer … or the dragon?"

Grimnir bit his lip, and felt the smoldering sensation in his insides ebb, and he released a great sigh. "It doesn't matter now," he said dismissively. "You're right, friend. The ends were still the same. M'Alga is dead … and the world is finally safe."

They watched the dragon roar in triumph on the crumbled arch of the mountain pass—and then, quite suddenly, the roar stopped, and Grimnir, his attention diverted, peered up at the great beast.

The gray dragon's mouth was still wide-open in mid-bellow. It was looking round in all directions, and then finally looking downward—Grimnir, frowning at this sudden, unexpected behaviot, thought he could see an expression of surprise on the dragon's eyes.

The dragon roared—a high, screeching noise that made Grimnir clap his hands to his head, lest his eardrums burst from the unpleasant noise. Through the discomfort, he realized that the dragon was in pain—excruciating pain, even! Had something happened to him when he'd eaten M'Alga—had the monster perhaps wounded him, before the mages had reached the summit of the mountain?

"_Bein lah!_" the dragon bellowed, scratching at its underbelly with the dewclaws on its wings, as if trying to rip itself open. Grimnir saw something glowing from within—a sickly, pale, bluish-purple color. _"Munax alok-dilon! __**Tahrov**__—!"_

BOOM.

Grimnir and the mages were knocked off their feet as a shockwave of violet energy radiated from the dragon, as it gave a final, shuddering shriek, and toppled from its perch with an impact that shook the earth. Odahviing, fortunately, spread out a wing before anyone lost their balance enough to take a fatal tumble down the stone staircase behind them, and caught them all with a gentle nudge.

When the mages had righted themselves, they turned to look at the dragon—and their looks of surprise rapidly turned to horror.

A gaping wound had been blown open in the dragon's chest, running along the entire length of the underbelly. Blood, viscera, and smoking bits of blackened bone and scales were scattered all over the place, and pale purple flames bathed the dragon both inside the wound and out. The dragon's mouth was still open, and its tongue lolled out of its jaws, ablaze in more amethyst-colored flame. The eyes were misted over, and blood poured from the sockets in a grotesque imitation of tears.

Grimnir was the first to speak. "What the devil just happened?"

Brelyna's look of shock was still on her face, even as she scrutinized the grisly scene. "It looks as though M'Alga claimed his last victim," she said. "Remember when I told you how that tether of his was feeding him magicka—more magicka than we'd ever seen in one body?"

Grimnir nodded.

"When that dragon ate M'Alga, that magicka must have been released from his body somehow. Since all of his body parts were inside the dragon at the time, it spread throughout that body. There must have been so much magicka flowing through M'Alga that the dragon couldn't handle it all—and M'Alga must have known it, in his last few moments."

"What do you mean?"

The dark elf narrowed her eyes. "He turned himself into a suicide attacker." Her voice was hard as nails. "All that magicka in one place—and it had nowhere to go but … " She spread her arms forward and out to their fullest extent, pantomiming the explosion they had just witnessed.

The vivid purple fire was spreading, now, covering the entire body of the dragon, consuming its scales and flesh.

"So … it's dead, then?" Onmund asked uncertainly.

"Even that wouldn't be enough to kill a dragon," Grimnir said. "Not for good, anyway. But I'm standing close enough that it doesn't really matter. I should probably be sensing its soul in my body by … now … "

He trailed off here, unable to speak above a stunned gurgle as he witnessed an unthinkable—no, he thought, impossible!—sight happening right before his eyes.

The violet flames that covered the gray dragon had consumed it to the bone in places, making it look like some rotted corpse. But the fire was mutating, the flames leaping up against the wind like some parody of a dragon's scales and spines.

But most maddening of all, _the dragon was still alive_.

Brelyna took a few paces backward, utterly stunned. "No … " she murmured. "That is _not possible_ … "

The wingtips of the dragon, splayed out on the ground, twitched in the snow once, then twice, and then, with a mighty heave—as if a dozen unseen mammoths had flipped the dragon over, it turned on its side—hitting the ground feet first—and its skeletal neck, viscera hanging from the vertebrae in stringy fibers, slowly turned in the mages' direction.

**_"I _****see****_ you."_**

It was Grimnir's turn to step back now, horrified beyond belief at this turn of events. " … How?" he could only stammer. _What in the name of Akatosh was going on here?!_

He had seen the jawbone of the dragon move, and speak the three words he had just heard—but he knew all too well that he wasn't hearing the dragon's voice at all. No dragon carried that much malice in its speech—that much relish at the prospect of mass destruction and desecration of life.

**_"I _****see****_ you … Dragonborn."_**

The voice coming from the dragon was unmistakably that of M'Alga.

* * *

_Next chapter: Grimnir learns the truth behind M'Alga and the "grub."_

* * *

**A/N: WOW that was a surprisingly quick chapter to write. Hopefully I didn't sacrifice any quality for it, especially since the final fight is on its way; I'm going to need that quality for the big—well, let's just say, ****_bigger_**** reveal.**

**Thanks for reading! – K**


	13. XII

XII

Two years ago, Grimnir Torn-Skull had infiltrated the Thalmor Embassy in Skyrim, disguised as a guest with the help of the Blades, whose allegiance he had recently gained after slaying Sahloknir in Kynesgrove, in order to gather information as to whether they were possibly behind the dragons' return or not. Of course, it was a stupid assumption—and Grimnir had privately believed there had been some prejudice against the Thalmor, though perhaps not unwarranted, that had influenced the plan's conception.

But the infiltration hadn't been a complete failure—while he'd been sneaking around, Grimnir had happened upon the holding cells below the Embassy, and beheld a grim scene: a Justiciar torturing an innocent man he'd never seen before in his life, but whose face had still been burned into his memory. He had heard the exchange between the elves and their prisoner, and …

At the time, Grimnir had no idea just what was making him feel so angry. He hadn't been aware of just what it meant to be the Dragonborn. He had only been aware of a primal rage stirring inside him, unlike any sort of anger he'd felt before—the kind of anger that befell a man who no longer cared whether he lived or died, but only about ending the horrors before his eyes. He'd entered the room, and charged the guards.

And he'd ended them.

Up until then, Grimnir had only killed out of a sense of self-preservation—if his opponent had made the first move, and attacked him first. The two Justiciars, however … Grimnir still remembered the terror and agony on their faces as he destroyed their bodies with his lightning, ravaging them inside and out until they were no longer recognizable. Bolt after bolt after bolt had been burned into their flesh, long after they were already dead.

He remembered how he'd taken in the sights of that moment, taken in the slow discovery that he was capable of murder … and he'd _smiled_.

It was the one time in Grimnir's entire life where he had ever remembered feeling _truly angry_—where the fury he had felt at the things he had seen and heard in that Embassy had come to a head, and pushed him past the point of mere _hatred_, refusing to be extinguished until the source of his all-consuming rage had been extinguished first.

And what he was seeing now, at the summit of Ancient's Ascent, was fast looking to be the next.

When he looked back on it later, Grimnir was amazed at how this entire affair had started out so _small_. He had felt angry after learning what Ancano had done to Savos Aren, and sworn his revenge upon the elf. He'd felt angrier still at the horrible truths he had uncovered in Labyrinthian, and what Savos Aren had done to ensure he survived that accursed place. But Grimnir knew there was no point in wishing a curse upon someone who was already dead. And so the anger had passed on, like the remnants of some tropical hurricane; it only existed to drive him onwards to his inevitable confrontation with the murderous Thalmor, and propelled him headlong into this conspiracy, in which Ancano had merely been a pawn.

Now, here he was, staring at a sight that should not have been possible: the body of a dead dragon, half-devoured by arcane fire, _coming back to life_ by the foul magic of a foe he'd been chasing relentlessly for near on a week throughout half of Skyrim, whom up until mere seconds ago he'd believed to be dead—dismembered and eaten by the same dragon that had just been reanimated.

"This shouldn't be possible … " Brelyna was saying over and over again. "This _can't_ be happening! Dragons can't be raised back from the dead … there's no way a necromancer has that kind of power!"

Grimnir didn't bother mentioning that he had seen Alduin resurrect dragons on more than one occasion—though he wasn't sure if that magic was necromancy at all; to Grimnir's eyes, it had looked more like Alduin had turned back time itself on the dragons' bodies, returning them to their earthly forms from the graves in which they'd been buried.

This, however, was indeed necromancy, but applied on a scale that Grimnir had never dreamed would be achieved by anyone. The four mages had long since left the extreme edge of what they knew was possible with magic, even before Grimnir had slain Ancano—but even compared to those, this was an unprecedented demonstration of magic.

No one necromancer had the reserves of magicka to do such a deed, Grimnir was sure, let alone the knowledge to make it work—or, for that matter, the audacity to undertake such an endeavor. But M'Alga, the combined fusion of no less than ten followers of Mannimarco, and all the magicka and knowledge they shared, had made it happen. It now appeared certain to Grimnir that this was what the Black Worm had been truly aspiring to achieve in M'Alga—_the reanimation of a fully-grown dragon_.

_That_ was precisely why he was so angry—not simply because M'Alga was still alive, even in this state. The monster, for all the crimes he had committed in Skyrim, had done something more monstrous by far on this mountaintop. In resurrecting this dragon, M'Alga, and the Black Worm with him, had violated the very laws of nature in the most egregious way imaginable.

And Grimnir was not going to let that stand.

He wasn't aware of the haze filling his vision until the corners of his eyes were red with blood and fire. Nor was the Arch-Mage immediately alert to the intense warmth spreading across his body, or the fact that Brelyna and the others were no longer by his side. He looked behind him, and noticed then that his companions had retreated to the passage behind them, clearly fearful—but not of the dragon; Grimnir saw just enough that he noticed their eyes looking right at him—and then he understood.

At first, the Arch-Mage was paralyzed with fear as he saw the all-too-familiar spiky flames licking his body, and felt the blazing inferno inside him roaring at its peak. Ancient's Ascent was hardly Windhelm, but that did not excuse the fact that the closest people he'd ever had to friends—and a closer dragon as well—were _right here with him_, and all of them were in extreme danger of dying if he lost his temper like that again.

But then his fear gave way to confusion—it didn't feel like he was losing his temper at all. All he seemed to feel was the fire inside his core, and the warmth outside his body. The infernal beast, though roused, had not been roused to fight, and so Grimnir felt no impulse to destroy without discrimination invading his mind. He wondered if perhaps even _he_ had been sickened by the magnitude of M'Alga's crime—he wondered, even, if the thing inside him perhaps _sympathized_ with him, and the unfortunate dragon, for having to experience it firsthand.

M'Alga's mouth—_no, the dragon's_—moved once again. **_"Magnificent,"_** he rumbled, his voice magnified tenfold as he drew himself up on his haunches, looming down upon the others, mere ants to him now. The corpse of the dragon still burned purple, but the fire no longer consumed it, whether by M'Alga's design, or its own.

The dragon's head—its skull half exposed to the elements by the amethyst flames—dipped in an awkward arc towards the mages. The eyes within had been eaten away by the magickal inferno, and all that was left were the empty sockets, where the flames congregated into points of flickering light brighter than any fire, magickal or normal.

Those points of light were now as widened as any eye could be, and Grimnir felt his stomach clench as it all sank in: M'Alga was drunk on his own power. He was not only beyond redemption now—he was beyond all hope of reason.

**_"You have no idea of what you've helped to unleash upon the world, Dragonborn,"_** hissed M'Alga. The ravaged face was creased in an evil sneer. **_"My master's power has called me here, to this mountain, and for my loyalty and service, he has bestowed his greatest gift of all upon me. Behold, now, the culmination of our efforts, and the limitless potential of his _****new ****_Order of the Black Worm—and know, deep down, that it was all made possible because of _****you****_."_**

"_Mu koraav bein nok!_"

Grimnir whirled around at Odahviing—the last voice he expected to hear in all this. The dragon's words, still ringing in his ears, were sharp as ebony daggers. His eyes were narrowed in a rare display of anger; no doubt the red dragon was more appalled than even Grimnir at seeing a fellow _dovah_ disrespected in such a way.

"All we behold," Odahviing rumbled, "is an _abomination_."

M'Alga roared, a horrible, grating shriek—most unlike a dragon—that set the hairs of Grimnir's neck on end from the sheer _wrongness_ of the sound. **_"You would dismiss this so easily?" _**the monster roared back. **_"Ignorance and arrogance! You are no better than the fools who sought to suppress our work by sowing mistrust and hate!"_**

Odahviing bared his teeth. "_Onikaan pahlok, zinsemeyye zol mul_," he growled. "Better to acknowledge the respect of a fool, than the arrogance of a wise man. There is no _respect_ in what your master has done today. I will not deny the deeds of those who worshiped us … but at least _they_ took the time to bury our dead with the _zin_ they deserve.

"But you … you have made a mockery of my _zeymahhe!_" Odahviing spat. Grimnir had never seen him so enraged. "_Tahrodiis nok se dovah!_ Had my _thuri_ commanded it of me, I would see my teeth to your neck _here and now!_"

Amongst his blazing rage, Grimnir felt a sudden rush of affection for the dragon beside him. Odahviing had just issued one of the most damning insults a dragon could possibly give—that he did not see M'Alga as a true dragon. That his scarlet steed was being held back from making good on taking his teeth to M'Alga's neck by the simple fact Grimnir hadn't told him to spoke volumes about the bond of devotion between the two. _He must be spending a lot of time with Paarthurnax_, he thought, thinking of the old dragon who constantly struggled to be at peace, at odds with his own nature, as he had for thousands of years. _ I can't say I blame him, though. It gets lonely up there._

M'Alga, meanwhile, had leaned in dangerously close to Grimnir and Odahviing. **_"Come, then!"_** he bellowed. **_"Destroy this so-called _****monster****_ if you think you can! It will change _****nothing!****_ My master's plan has already been set into motion. The grub comes now, to this place, to see with his own eyes the fruits of his labors!"_**

For a moment, Grimnir quite forgot the raw fury he was directing at M'Alga. His mouth had suddenly gone very dry, and he'd taken an unconscious step backward, nearly falling off the stairs behind him as he did so.

_The grub comes now_.

"Your master … is coming _here?_" he repeated, unwilling to believe what he'd just heard.

**_"Yes … "_** M'Alga's sneer made it crystal clear that he was enjoying watching Grimnir's stunned reaction. **_"The same power that gives him command of this great beast"_**—Odahviing snarled at him—**_"also draws him closer to me. It is his magic that flows through every vein and vessel of this body, even now—it is his to use as he sees fit. And the closer he draws to me, the more potent the bond between us will grow … and the stronger I will become."_**

The sinking feeling that suddenly gripped the Arch-Mage felt so real that for a moment he thought he actually had fallen down those stairs. He could not believe what he was hearing. Had M'Alga been one step ahead of him this whole time—even as they'd relentlessly chased him through Falkreath Hold? And his unseen master … this unspoken plan … had Grimnir simply been nothing more than a cog in some great Dwemer machine of indeterminate purpose, even from the moment he'd slain Ancano in the College hall?

**_"Why aren't you trying to destroy me, Dragonborn?"_** goaded M'Alga. **"****_It's what you do best, isn't it—to destroy what you don't understand, and conquer the rest? The mages of the ancient times thought the likes of my master a _****blight****_ on their so-called _****perfect world****_, out of something so simple as _****blind fear!**

**_"Or have you realized the truth—that there is nothing you can do to stop what has already happened? That no matter how hard you try, you will never exterminate us from this world as long as my master draws breath!"_**

M'Alga bared his fangs in a smirk. **_"Accept this simple truth, Dragonborn,"_** he growled in gloating triumph. **_"You. Have. Lost."_**

…

"_No_."

Grimnir had felt his mouth move, but the single word he spoke took time to penetrate the haze of blazing emotion roaring inside his mind. When the simple denial finally registered, as if to confirm his earlier thoughts, he realized that the words was not of the Dragonborn, but of Grimnir Torn-Skull—the words and thoughts of his own mind, and spoken with none of the bestial malice of Bahlokmaar and Windhelm, despite the Dragonborn's power that had manifest over his body.

He took a deep breath, and—for the first time in nearly two years—Spoke three simple words.

**_"Joor … Zah FRUL!"_**

An explosion of blue light and wind blossomed like a giant flower from his mouth. M'Alga was standing so close to him that nothing in all of existence could possibly have helped him. The wave crested over him without even slowing down.

The effects were immediate. M'Alga's draconic body erupted in glittering blue light, like millions of sapphires had suddenly encrusted his bones and the little flesh blood was left to him, and his entire body pitched back as he let loose an earsplitting shriek of unmistakable, unparalleled _pain_.

**_"What is this?!"_** he screeched, for a moment sounding like the scared lizard-thing from Windhelm, reduced to a quivering wreck in the presence of this new power. **_"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!"_**

Grimnir ignored the deafening screaming of the monster as he writhed in the snow, his claws and spiked scales scoring gashes in the rocks and upending trees by the roots. When the Arch-Mage next spoke, he was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice sound surprisingly calm, though much deeper—and yet possessing the anger of both man and dragon within its depths.

"M'Alga," the Dragonborn said, "you aren't the only one who's been willing to break the laws of nature … just to gain a bit of power."

The abomination could not hear him even if he had tried; Grimnir's Shout hadn't left a single inch of his body untouched inside or out. But over M'Alga's continuing throes of agony, he still continued to speak, undaunted by the monster's writhing form, not budging an inch even as the wings and bones of the tail flapped and whipped every which way as if they had minds of their own, missing him by scant inches on more than one occasion.

"At the height of the Dragon War," Grimnir said, "when all seemed lost for mankind, the dragon Paarthurnax taught the Shout you heard just now to the greatest Nord Tongues of old. Those Tongues—_mortal_ men—_bound_ into that Shout every ounce of suffering they had experienced at the cruelty of the dragons, and the men that served them. They created this Shout, Dragonrend, for the express purpose of teaching an _immortal_ dragon the concept of _mortal life_—and forcing him to live it firsthand.

"For the dragons, the mere idea of _temporary_ existence was literally unthinkable. Plenty were driven mad by the Shout, and many more were killed in battle because of it—robbed of their voice and their wings, and most of all, their immortality. Even Alduin himself was not immune to its effects, god though he was—and in this, the fact that he chose to reincarnate as a dragon proved to be his undoing. Dragonrend was, without a doubt, the most powerful weapon ever conceived by the minds of men."

Grimnir paused. "That is precisely why—after I used that Shout to defeat Alduin in Sovngarde—I made a vow before I returned to Nirn. I might not be one of the dragons, but I carry their soul inside me all the same. And every time I felt those Words fly from my lips, I could feel my soul writhing in pain; I knew deep down that I was about to torture one of my own kind— that I'd be committing a terrible crime.

"And so, I promised myself that day … that I would never use Dragonrend on another dragon again."

It was the first time he had ever disclosed this to anyone—whether living or dead, mortal or dragon—and though he could not see them, Grimnir knew that Odahviing and his three companions were astounded to hear this information. Odahviing had himself felt the effects of Dragonrend once, when Grimnir had captured him in Whiterun, interrogated him, and mounted him to fly to Alduin's stronghold—and the Arch-Mage suspected that the crimson dragon, more than anyone else here, understood why he had chosen to do what he'd done.

He did not say more on the matter—there would be many hours and days, and many visits to High Hrothgar and Paarthurnax, in which he could discuss his reasoning in further detail.

For now, Grimnir took still more time to let his words sink in, and to emphasize his next question. "So why would I use it on _you_, M'Alga? Why force me to go against my own word just to destroy you? I've got a lot of reasons I could give you; I could say something about how I don't consider you a _true dragon_, either—how you're nothing more than an _imitation_. I could even tell you that you brought this on yourself—that the moment your master set his plan in motion, he set off something he never could have anticipated: _us_."

He spread out his arms, indicating the mages behind him, and Odahviing beside him, and felt his voice grow lower, more primal, as his next words came.

"But in the end, it boils down to this: right now, _there isn't a single thing in this world that we hate more than you_."

The agony must have subsided for M'Alga at that point; he was no longer screaming or thrashing around, and was listening to Grimnir's speech with a look on his half-consumed face that the Arch-Mage did not like one bit.

And then, the undead dragon spoke a single word—just one. **_"Good."_**

He swung his scaled, flaming bulk to one side, and moved away from them, making it perfectly clear that nothing more was left to say between them.

"He's getting away!" shouted Onmund just then. "If he gets airborne—!"

"I know," Grimnir said simply, turning to his companions.

It struck him how much they'd been through in such a short time—from their first lessons at the College to taking on a dragon priest of old, and now an undead dragon—a first to end them all. And the experience showed on them. When they had first met each other before old Tolfdir that one snowy day, three pairs of eyes had been wide with innocent wonder. No longer was this the case today; the same three pairs of eyes were narrowed in an iron resolve that Grimnir would never have found on any soldier—whether Stormcloak or Legionnaire.

"I'm going to fight him," he said to the mages, choosing his words carefully, knowing there wasn't much time before M'Alga would once again be beyond his reach. "It has to be me—and no one else. Only I can kill him now." He paused, thinking, examining his flaming hand, how each tongue of ephemeral flame seemed to freeze for a moment in the scalloped shape of a dragon's scale.

"I know that's what he wanted—to come here, and gain a power that no other man could strip from him," he said. "You can do what you want, all of you. I won't blame you for leaving this place—I'm not asking you to fight by my side today. But if you must, I won't stop you from fighting, either. I don't have that kind of power over you."

Three pairs of eyes trained themselves on him now, and only then did Grimnir understand that the iron resolve was not simply an act of defiance.

"We're with you," Brelyna told him softly, and Grimnir dimly remembered that he'd heard those words before—on the steps of the College, as they prepared to face the unknown in what Ancano had become.

He saw the steely gazes of J'zargo and Onmund, and knew there was no point in asking them—they were with him, too—just as it had been from that first lesson. The Arch-Mage, unable to think of anything to say in response to the show of silent loyalty, only nodded once at them, and that one simple action carried more words in it than the whole of Urag's Arcanaeum.

At long last, Grimnir broke away from them, and turned to his crimson servant. "Odahviing, _fly_," he ordered him, as he climbed up his neck. "We're going to end this monster _once and for all_."

Odahviing gave no response other than a low roar—his own expression of hatred for the abomination that was preparing to take flight—before he launched himself into the air with a storm of crimson wings.

* * *

Though M'Alga could still not see in the traditional sense, the magicka his master had transferred to him had spread throughout the dragon's decaying body. If he concentrated a small portion of that magicka in the empty spaces where the dragon's eyes had once been, he was able to make out a series of fuzzy shapes, tinted violet by the arcane fire that continued to ravage his body. Some did not move—a series of thick lines he took to be trees, and then several rocky ledges upon which he, and the dragon his master had used him to reanimate, had perched.

Others, however, were moving—tiny squiggles of blackness that M'Alga took to be the Dragonborn and his companions. If he concentrated the magicka that allowed him to see further still, his vision was transformed into a scrye that, while imperfect, was still more than serviceable in this situation; it was easy now to detect which of these squiggles was the Dragonborn—the power emanating from him was incredible. A whitish glow distorted his features, and burned so brightly that even M'Alga's scrye-enhanced vision could not bear to look at him for long.

Had it not been for this moment of fascination, M'Alga might have left the group then and there, while the Dragonborn was occupied with talking to his companions. It would have been the logical course of action, to reunite with his master without having to risk his un-life in another chase across Tamriel. But M'Alga knew reunion was not the only goal in his master's mind—he had never been one to give in to the pitfalls of sentimentality.

No, there was another reason this dragon had been reanimated, and a deceptively straightforward one at that: M'Alga's master simply wanted to learn more about it—its powers and nature, its strengths and weaknesses. Why, he could not fathom—the Black Worm was too immense and well-structured an organization to give up all its secrets so easily. His master had chosen the components of M'Alga well, and taken extreme care to populate his mind with no more memories than was necessary, in the unlikely event he would be taken in for interrogation—he had been very careful to cover all his tracks to a one.

A sudden movement distracted him; the Dragonborn was climbing atop the red dragon—another act M'Alga found impressive. To see a mortal hold that much command over the proud species was a rarity indeed—perhaps even unique to the Dragonborn alone. But he did not stay impressed for long; he knew that he had to leave now, lest dragon and Dragonborn alike would complicate matters further still.

M'Alga's priority above all else was to return to his master, or allow his master to come to him. But if anyone were to try and stop that from happening, he would have to eliminate them first. The Dragonborn would prove difficult in that regard—however, he thought, as he noticed his three companions standing near the cave entrance, he wondered if a distraction was in order.

He smiled. Yes, he thought, looking round the mountainside, his gaze lingering on each pile of bones in the snow as a plan began to take shape in his head—he would deal with them first. The Dragonborn could not fight more than one foe at once. And his master had provided him with more than enough magicka to turn the odds in his favor.

As the crimson dragon and its master made ready to ascend, M'Alga now concentrated that magicka in the throat of his mouth, compressing it into a single point barely larger than a man's arm—and released it in a torrent of bright purple fire.

But not at the Dragonborn.

* * *

Onmund was the lone of the three mages who was not looking expectantly at Grimnir as Odahviing carried him into the air. He therefore only just realized what M'Alga was preparing to do, and was the first to react. "WARDS!"

He, Brelyna, and J'zargo each managed to erect a barrier of shimmering energy mere moments before the shockwaves of indigo flames washed over them. The fire, surprisingly cool against their faces, licked at the edges of the trio's wards, but an effort of will was able to keep them together.

But as the inferno subsided, a second thought occurred to Onmund that supplanted the strange qualities of the fire—they had only blocked a shockwave; the worst of the blast had not been directed at them, but somewhere above and to their left.

And most disturbing of all, the field of snow before them looked untouched by the onslaught of violet fire—not even slightly melted—even thought Onmund swore blind the entire mountainside had been bathed in it only seconds ago. As he looked on, he noticed a few tongues of flame still flickering here and there—but right before his eyes, they seemed to be sucked into the ground, as if something beneath the earth was drawing them inside.

"What _was_ that?!" Brelyna said breathlessly as her ward faded from her palms, surveying the area with a frown. "Some kind of Shout? I didn't hear any Words … but it can't have been a normal fire spell, either! How could M'Alga have access to a spell with that much power?"

J'zargo suddenly held up a paw, silencing her. That was when the three mages felt the trembling sounds under their feet—and the unmistakable sound of rock, ice, and permafrosted earth cracking and crumbling.

The Khajiit's whiskers, standing on end, began to droop. "Jone and Jode save us," he whispered. "We should have stayed on the other side of the cave."

"Why?" Onmund was doing his best to stay balanced, but the earth was beginning to shake harder—any more and they'd all be on their hands and knees like babies.

"Look at where we are," J'zargo said. "M'Alga did not simply happen upon that dragon by accident. The beast was roosting here—somehow, he _knew_."

It was Brelyna's turn to look horrified. "Then that wasn't a fire spell," she realized. "It was more necromancy." The Dunmer swallowed. "We've all been to a dragon's lair before. We know what they're capable of killing."

Onmund did indeed know, and the realization of how much trouble they were in was finally beginning to occur. And he had also seen bones of every creature imaginable, big and small, that littered the mountainside around them in no short supply—saber cats, bears, trolls, and who knew what else.

Then the earth gave a massive heave upwards, sending all three mages tumbling to the snowy ground—and Onmund watched in horror as a full two dozen victims of the dragon M'Alga had killed—brought back to the world of the living by the flames that swirled around their corroded forms—emerged from the earth, outnumbering them by at least ten to one.

This time, there was no time for wards.

* * *

Grimnir saw M'Alga blast purple flames upon the ground right as Odahviing was taking off. Fortunately, Onmund, Brelyna, and J'zargo had responded well with their defensive magicks, and Grimnir only spared a moment's prayer to the Divines before he ushered Odahviing to climb with all his might and speed.

And not a moment too soon—M'Alga had no sooner extinguished the amethyst fire from his maw than he too took to the skies, climbing straight upward in a sheer, vertical climb, quickly outpacing Odahviing within moments.

_He's trying to get out of range of the others_, Grimnir thought, _just in case they do decide to assist me_. That suited him just fine—on top of allowing him to fight M'Alga with all the strength he could muster, the Arch-Mage's companions would not be at risk of collateral damage that often resulted from two dragons fighting each other.

"_Koraav gol!_" cried Odahviing at that moment, craning his neck to look somewhere below him. "Look down!"

Grimnir did—and felt immediately like his stomach had dropped out of the sky, and not out of a simple fear of heights: M'Alga's blast of fire had been more than just that, apparently: dozens upon dozens of dead, decaying, and skeletal animals—everything from wolves to bears, and saber cats to trolls, and even a mammoth or two, he noted in shock—rose from the snow, all of them wreathed in the unmistakable purple, swirling glow of necromantic magic.

"_Damn_ that lizard," he spat. M'Alga had taken advantage of his airborne position the moment Odahviing had lifted off. The reanimated creatures were far enough apart that one simple burst of fire from either him or his steed would not be enough to finish them off—and even if it was, it was too risky; the mages were right in the thick of things.

Though he cursed M'Alga's cunning, Grimnir knew there was nothing he could do—he could only hope that the mages could hold their own against this new threat, while he and Odahviing dealt with the abomination above them.

And speaking of—M'Alga was slowing down.

They were hundreds of feet in the air by now, and though the air was scarce so high above the ground, Grimnir had survived worse atop the Throat of the World—the highest peak in all of Tamriel, and higher by far than Ancient's Ascent. He had battled Alduin there, too—though he had never climbed so high while mounting a dragon.

Nevertheless, Grimnir knew he had an edge in experience—and in firepower. The only trick was getting close enough to use it, and he knew M'Alga was not planning on making that an easy fight.

He watched as M'Alga made a wheeling turn in midair—the corroded, smoldering bulk of the monster turning gracefully despite all appearances to the contrary—and dived straight down like a hawk on the hunt.

Grimnir braced himself, holding on as tightly as he could to Odahviing's horns. The red dragon slowed, stalled, and brought his claws and wings to their fullest extent as M'Alga sped right for them.

And right as the two combatants met with an impact that sent shockwaves throughout the immediate area, dragon and Dragonborn alike Shouted in unison.

**_"Yol … Toor SHUL!"_**

* * *

Above and below, the battle was joined.

But as momentous as the impact was—and no doubt a spectacle to see at any other time—Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo had no time to observe the fight that was unfolding high above them.

The wolves charged first, being the speediest of the animals M'Alga had brought back to life. Their bodies were fragile, and more so in undeath, but they remained so fleet of foot that the three mages had only seconds to react. Fortunately, J'zargo's mastery of fire spells proved to be a boon—the Khajiit wiped out a good half-dozen wolves with twin fireballs before the first of them had a change to leap for them. The bodies of the wolves, scarred and burned from their unfortunate encounter with the dragon, crumbled to ash in moments, only to be scattered by yet more undead creatures.

Brelyna brought both hands together, obliterating an approaching saber cat with a burst of lightning so powerful that the shocks snaked through the mutilated corpse and into several other nearby animals before they had an opportunity to rush for them.

"Watch it!" Onmund yelled, firing several bursts of ice into the shamble of undead. Several unlucky adventurers, ruined armor still drooping from their emaciated forms, had rushed from the bulk of the horde, their rusted swords raised to make a slashing blow to Brelyna. Frozen missiles pierced ragged leather, pitted iron, and frozen flesh, and pinned both of the zombies to the ground, unable to attack or defend. Two more bolts of lightning from Brelyna finished them off, scattering bones and viscera all over the clearing—but the mages' troubles weren't over yet.

Onmund barely had enough time to spot the snow bear charging at him like a juggernaut before J'zargo shoved him out of the way to safety with one paw. The other paw blazed with flames, and the Khajiit wasted no time in roasting the insides of the bear as he weaved out of the way of the rampaging mammal. A deft, flame-enhanced chop to the bear's spine shattered it completely, and the bear unbalanced, toppling off the stairs from its own momentum to crash at the mouth of Bonechill Passage, disintegrating into a puff of ash.

Slowly but surely, the horde of undead animals and humans alike was wearing thin—but so were the mages' reserves of magicka, and their stamina as well. All three were out of breath, so short in supply on a mountaintop like this one, and were well aware that the undead would give them no time to allow them them to recuperate.

They also knew for a fact that M'Alga had cast that mass-reanimation spell for the express purpose of tiring them out, overwhelming them through sheer force of numbers. A prolonged battle would be a losing one—and as it stood, the mages did not have the means to bring an end to this conflict.

All they could do now, Brelyna thought, was hope that Grimnir had better luck in finishing this battle for them—and, she added mentally, as her eyes looked past the horde of animals, and saw the two undead mammoths there, pawing at the ground with loud, trumpeting blasts and making ready to charge, that he'd do it sooner than later.

* * *

Grimnir and Odahviing, to their credit, were certainly trying.

Their tandem Fire Breath had worked to devastating effect—Grimnir, unable to produce the legendary torrents of dragonfire that Odahviing and other dragons could, had Shouted a single massive fireball from his mouth that hit M'Alga full in the chest, and blasted several dozen scales into shrapnel.

The force of the impact separated the two dragons by several dozen feet—well within range for Odahviing to use his own Fire Breath before M'Alga had a change to recover. The superheated flames from the crimson dragon, far hotter than any furnace the Dwemer had been known to build—with the possible exception of Dagoth Ur in Red Mountain—burned through the flaming hole Grimnir had punched through M'Alga, and out the other end. A large number of the long spikes that lined M'Alga's back were blasted away from the sheer heat, scattered over the cliffs hundreds of feet below them.

Yet the dragon still was not dead—the intensity of the fire had reduced M'Alga to little more than a skeleton; the flesh and scales were almost entirely gone, save for a few remnants draped across the bones like rags. The ribcage had been completely exposed by the combined efforts of Grimnir's and Odahviing's Fire Breath.

And at its heart—in the center of the roaring maelstrom of amethyst flames—Grimnir saw a single skull floating and bobbing within the inferno. Blackened by dragon-fire, glinting like obsidian, yet still unmistakably lizardlike in its appearance … and unmistakably smiling.

The sight redoubled Grimnir's fury further still, and he urged Odahviing onward and upward to prepare for another attack. And this time around, neither was going to waste another moment tearing M'Alga apart limb from half-decayed limb—they were going to finish him off here and now.

"Joor … Zah FRUL!" Grimnir Shouted again, and sapphire energy radiated from his mouth—but the instant of distraction from before had cost Grimnir time; M'Alga was more than ready for Dragonrend this time. He avoided the Shout with a barrel roll so slow and deliberately lazy that Grimnir was certain the monster was mocking him.

But he had no time for another counterattack—M'Alga's maneuver had been for more than the sake of his own skin. The dragon dived headlong again for Grimnir and Odahviing, and this time, the Arch-Mage knew M'Alga was too close for them to dodge the oncoming attack—and both dragons were traveling too fast to stop.

"PULL UP!" Grimnir roared, grasping Odahviing's horns with all the strength his Nord blood could give him.

But even a Nord could not stand fast against the raw physical strength of a dragon. Grimnir realized this one full second before M'Alga plowed head-on into Odahviing with a force that could have cracked even the stolid walls of Whiterun.

One full second after that, the shocks of the impact threw him off Odahviing's neck completely, and sent them both tumbling to Nirn at speeds no Dragonborn would be able to survive.

* * *

The dull, earthshaking _thud_ of two dragons slamming into each other was a noise not often heard in any part of Tamriel. Thus, when the three mages heard what had previously been a sound they'd never heard before, they automatically glanced upwards—distracted for once from the mammoths that were seconds away from charging them down—at the sky, and the two dragons locked there in mortal combat.

Except one of those dragons was plummeting back to earth—but that was not what suddenly grabbed the mages' attention. Each of them stared, appalled and white in the face, at the small dot that was their falling Arch-Mage.

Brelyna could not even bring herself to scream—it felt as though her stomach had dissolved. There was no way any of them could reach him in time—and she knew of no spells that had even a prayer of slowing Grimnir's plunge.

But Odahviing did.

When the Dunmer looked back on it later, she found she had only scant memories of what happened next; everything seemed to be happening all at once. She had seen Odahviing appear to recover from his fall and spread his wings so far out that for an instant the sun was completely obscured from Brelyna's eyes.

It was only an instant because Odahviing was clearly heard to yell, _"Tiid … Klo UL!"_—and from the moment she heard the Shout she knew to have the ability to slow time, Brelyna's eyes could only make out blurs and flashes of color. Odahviing looked for all the world like a scaled, leather-winged hawk as he dived towards Grimnir's falling form—almost frozen in midair in comparison to the blinding speed of the crimson dragon.

Then, just as abruptly, Odahviing executed a snap roll that left Brelyna's eyes spinning in their sockets, and, finally—just as time began to resume its normal flow around him—the red dragon pulled up in a slow, curving arc, and soared towards them to land.

As he drew closer, Brelyna saw Grimnir clutched in one clawed foot—the aura of power finally disappeared from his body—and the dark elf let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding; he was in one piece, and he looked to still be alive. Somehow, Odahviing had caught his master with incredible precision, slowing the flow of time around him to not only carry his master to safety, but catch him in a way that wouldn't throw him about so violently that he might as well not have fallen at all. Such a display of devotion from the dragon was nothing short of astounding.

Only when Odahviing was feet away from the snow-covered clearing did he release his charge from his grip. Grimnir tumbled safely into a nearby snowdrift, away from most of the carnage caused by the mages' battle with M'Alga's undead horde—clearly unconscious, but very much alive.

Odahviing, now relieved of his temporary burden, now turned to engage the undead with a fierce gleam in his eyes. _"Yol … Toor SHUL!"_ he thundered—and for the second time today, the clearing was awash in dragon-fire. There were howls, then broken fragments—and then, when the fire subsided, there was nothing left of the mammoths and the undead around them save for settling clouds of ash.

Brelyna waited until the last of the searing flames had died down before she rushed out, restoration magic brimming in her hands. "Quick!" she shouted at the others urgently, as they rushed for their Arch-Mage. "Heal him back up—we have to get him back on his feet or we're done for!"

"Look out!"

J'zargo's quick tug on the collar of her robe was all that saved Brelyna; a blast of purplish-black fire bloomed mere inches ahead of her, between her and Grimnir. She felt the intense heat from the arcane flames on her exposed face as J'zargo just barely pulled her back from the sudden explosion.

Automatically, she looked upward, and beheld a terrible sight: more dark fire was raining down from the sky. Dozens and dozens of fireballs blasted from M'Alga's flaming, skeletal form, each of them striking the clearing in every direction around them. They were comparatively small—no bigger than the missile of a standard firebolt spell—but Brelyna knew better. _This_ fire was different somehow, even from the flames that enveloped M'Alga.

It was Odahviing who figured it out. "_Horvutte fah sillesejoor!_" he growled. "The flames are soul-trapped! You must not let them touch you!"

Brelyna swore loudly; that explained the color of the fire. Soul trapping was a gray area in conjuration magic; though it was apprentice-level magic, Phinis Gestor did not teach it lightly. It was a standard practice for any student of enchanting in Skyrim—but only with the so-called "white souls"—that was to say, capturing the souls of animals and non-sentient beings in soul gems. The trapping of _"black"_ souls, on the other hand—the souls of humans and other intelligent beings—was considered one of the blackest arts of necromancy in existence, a violation of an innocent life that transcended mere physical force.

It was a rape of the body, mind _and_ soul—and M'Alga was willing to do it on every single being in this clearing.

A shadow fell over the three mages suddenly, as yet more fire rained down upon them. Brelyna looked up to see Odahviing standing over them, wings fully unfurled, and hunched down over them in a defensive posture. Even as the Dunmer looked on, several of the fireballs scored direct hits on the crimson dragon; with each successive strike, his scales began to glow a sickly violet color.

"_Zu'u fen spaan!_" growled Odahviing, fangs clenched in obvious pain. "The fire will not harm me as much as it will you. And if M'Alga thinks to trap _my_ soul—he will find the act a difficult one indeed."

Brelyna nodded silently back—no words existed that could properly express her gratitude for the acts Odahviing had done today. Without wasting another moment, then, she set about applying her restoration magic.

There wasn't much to heal, thankfully—only a few cuts and bruises, unavoidable after being picked up by anything with very large claws. Onmund and J'zargo were able to seal them up without too much trouble, while Brelyna focused on helping Grimnir recover his consciousness—an altogether different act from sealing wounds and setting broken bones. A precise application of restoration magic to his temples might accelerate the process, she decided.

Placing a glowing palm either side of the Arch-Mage's head, then, she released a short burst of magicka. Grimnir's head seemed to glow from within for only a moment—then, so suddenly that Brelyna started, his eyes snapped open, and he took a deep breath of air, coughing.

When he finally regained his senses, and noticed everyone standing around him, worried looks plastered over every face, he spoke a single word.

_"Ow."_

Dramatic, he was not, Brelyna thought—but hearing his voice was still a far bigger comfort than words could express.

"It is good to have you back as well, friend," J'zargo smiled from behind him. "But we are not the ones to thank for your situation."

"Ugh … my head feels like a brawl in the Bannered Mare," said the Arch-Mage, shaking his head groggily. He sounded a little punch-drunk beneath his irritation, and Brelyna couldn't blame him. "That's not a situation I can see anyone getting thanks for."

"How much do you remember?" Brelyna asked him, keeping her voice gentle despite the continued barrage of fire.

Grimnir groaned again. "I remember falling … " he said, brow wrinkled in thought as he tried to piece events together. "Odahviing must've caught my fall somehow—would explain why my whole chest feels like it got clubbed by a giant … "

He sighed, rubbing his head—and then, quite suddenly, sat bolt upright.

"Odahviing!" he barked. "M'Alga! The zombies—"

"All taken care of," Onmund told him. "Odahviing helped us out with the last of them. I wouldn't thank him yet, though," he added, pointing upwards to the shadowed bulk of the dragon shielding them from M'Alga's fire. "We owe him our lives right now—probably even our souls as well—but as long as we're like this, we're pinned down. We can't do a thing."

Grimnir followed Onmund's finger, and only now appeared to realize that the shadow falling across his face wasn't a rock formation of some sort. "Odahviing?"

_"Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin!"_ The scarlet dragon's reply sounded rather strained, as though he was grinding his fangs to dust to stem off the withering assault. Odahviing's neck dipped downward to gaze at his master, and Brelyna shivered at the blackened scales that covered most of the dragon's face.

"_Orin brit tiid_—your timing is impeccable, and most fortunate!" Odahviing barked. "I do not think I can hold the _Nokdovah_ off for much longer!"

Immediately Grimnir was on his feet. "You don't need to protect me any longer, Odahviing," he said. Perhaps it was the burst of restoration magic she had given him, but Brelyna thought the Arch-Mage sounded a lot more confident than he had before. "Just get everyone else to safety. I'll deal with M'Alga myself."

As if in response to this, two blasts of purple-black fire exploded just over Odahviing's wings, and the red dragon roared in pain as his body continued to glow with the effect's of M'Alga's attack.

"Those fireballs carry a soul-trap, Grimnir," Brelyna explained to him as quickly as she could. "If even _one_ of them hits you, you'll run the risk of losing your soul and having it sealed up somewhere if you die—and given who's casting them, I'd rather not find out where a place like that might be."

But Grimnir waved her off. "You've done more than enough for me here—all of you. There'll be time to give a proper thank-you later. But right now, I need to see my plan through to the end."

"Plan?" Brelyna frowned—she didn't remember Grimnir discussing his plan this far ahead. More to the point, so much had happened in the past few minutes that the Dunmer was almost certain any plan Grimnir had concocted had essentially been thrown out the window when he'd been thrown from Odahviing. No one could possibly account for something like that.

She stared at Grimnir. The resolute expression on his face was back, and a sudden thought occurred to Brelyna. _… Could they?_

"M'Alga has the high ground," Grimnir said softly. It was not a question. "That's all I need." He locked eyes with Odahviing. "Make sure M'Alga stays up there. Do what you can to give me a clear path, and a clean shot."

Here, Grimnir rested a hand on Odahviing's scaled chest. "It's almost certain that the worst may come to worst, my friend," he said, his voice strangely quiet. "I only ask that you be prepared for it to happen."

"I have felt your worst before, _thuri_," responded the red dragon. "_Zu'u naakaan hin suleyk_. I have tasted your power before—I will survive it once more."

"What I wouldn't give for an ounce of your confidence, Odahviing," Grimnir grunted as he finally stood to his feet—with some difficulty; his bad leg was clearly still bothering him. Brelyna saw the shimmering energy of a nascent ward in his palm as he turned to the mages.

"The rest of you, head for Bonechill Passage," he said, "and don't come back outside until it's quiet again. I don't want you to get killed out here on my watch. Go now. Fly!"

The Dunmer saw the glint in Grimnir's eye, and knew arguing was pointless. As Odahviing took to the skies once more, therefore, she wasted no time in herding a reluctant Onmund and a protesting J'zargo toward the passage nearby. "It's got to be him," she kept on saying. "He doesn't want us getting hurt."

The words were intended to be tonic for both their nerves as well as her own, but the sinking feeling yet lingered inside her stomach as Brelyna took one last look at the clearing before retreating into the passage.

_I just hope _he_ doesn't get hurt instead_.

* * *

A split-second glance out of the corner of his eye was all Grimnir needed to confirm the mages were out of harm's way. He now turned his focus to M'Alga, so high up above him that he seemed no bigger than a songbird at this point, and Odahviing's rapidly shrinking form as the red dragon moved to clash once again.

He stayed there, not daring to blink, even as more arcane blasts continued to erupt all around him in flowers of shadowy flame. He kept his ward at the ready; if one blast were to get too close to him, he would deflect it harmlessly to one side of him. But he could not afford to be wasteful with what little magicka he had left. The future of Tamriel would come down to the next few moments—he had put his full trust in Odahviing, and in his companions. All that was left to do was put his trust in the most difficult place of all—himself.

He watched Odahviing soar higher and higher—and then, with a shockwave that dispelled every cloud within a mile—the two dragons connected yet again. This time, it was Odahviing who had slammed into M'Alga; it was a wonder how the monster's corroded form hadn't been splintered apart by the sheer force of the impact alone. Roars and bellows—too far above to be properly heard, but no doubt words of mutual loathing between the two—echoed through the sky as the two dragons began a midair tussle, fighting to stay aloft in the air.

And still, Grimnir stood firm. _Wait for it_, he told himself over and over again, as he deflected a burst of purple fire that would have caught him full in the chest. He was only going to have one shot at this—if he missed, or if he failed, there was nothing more he could do. Everything—Hob's Fall, Mzurkunch, Morthal, Solitude, and Windhelm—came down to this one shot.

He bit his lip until the blood flowed as he saw Odahviing's claws latch onto M'Alga's ribcage and twist, sending the dragon off-balance. Then, Odahviing wrapped his wings around M'Alga's own, embracing the abomination completely as they began to plummet to earth—straight for him.

_Now_.

He breathed in until his lungs felt like they were going to explode … then—**_"Joor … Zah FRUL!"_**

Dragonrend bloomed from his mouth for the second time today, expanding into a glimmering blue cloud that rocketed upwards at speeds to rival any dragon. Odahviing and M'Alga together were caught up in the blast, and though Grimnir's heart pained to see his faithful steed brought down to a mere mortal, he knew the red dragon had put his trust in him. The bond between them was far too strong to be broken by the limitations of mere finite life.

Grimnir watched the spectacle for a few dangerous moments longer, watching Odahviing and M'Alga descend together with no signs of stopping or even moving out of the way—the monster was well and truly trapped. Then, he bolted for Bonechill Passage as quickly as his legs could carry him, knowing full well that where he was now was about to become ground zero for a tremendous impact—

WHAM.

He'd hardly made it a score of paces before the pair of dragons hit Ancient's Ascent with the force of a shooting star. The force of the impact send shockwaves ripping through the mountain, pulverizing trees and toppling rocks for miles around. Grimnir was catapulted off the ground completely, tossed like a child's toy over the edge of the stone stairs and into the remains of a crumbled ledge. Pain seared through his body as he felt his back hit the rocks, unprotected by little more than his Arch-Mage's robes and the flesh of his bones. He roared in pain, and through the agony, a small part of him was dimly aware of how much like a dragon the scream had sounded in his ears.

Within the cloud of dust, snow, and pulverized debris of battle, Grimnir saw a crimson shadow stirring, and knew he wasn't finished yet. Dragonrend had only been the beginning—and the devastation caused by the dragons' near annihilation of the mountainside had not been the only reason for his insistence in getting his companions to safety.

A prolonged shriek of pain told the Arch-Mage that his Dragonrend was still in effect. He knew not if that was Odahviing or M'Alga, nor did he know how much longer they would stay bound to the ground. He only hoped the crimson dragon had had the sense to avoid the final phase of his attack.

One, two, three long seconds he waited—and then, finally, he played his last card.

_"STRUN!"_

No sooner had Grimnir Shouted the single word to the high heavens that the skies—clear but for a few remaining wisps of cloud—suddenly darkened into a churning mess of blue and gray, and the winds began to whip and shriek upon what little remained upon the mountainside. Undeterred, the Arch-Mage limped up the stairs, clutching at his back with a hand full of healing magic as he did so, easing the renewed pain in his body as best he could.

He had to make sure the deed was done. He had to make sure he finished it himself.

BANG.

The lightning bolt struck from the skies with an intensity that nearly matched Odahviing's suicide maneuver. A draconic shriek of pain followed not long after; the blast had struck home. Grimnir was halfway up the stairs when the next two bolts blasted the clearing, and the rains began to fall. The roars of agony doubled in their strength—he was nearby, Grimnir knew, he wanted to behold the sight with his own eyes—he was almost to the top now; his eyes were just about to crest the topmost stair—

And there he was.

M'Alga, no longer a monster—no longer a menace—lay splayed in the center of the destroyed clearing, in the center of a great crater wide enough to fit the Hall of the Elements. Odahviing lay there at its edge, curled up near the massive headstone at the summit of the Ascent—still glowing blue with Dragonrend, but still breathing, and therefore still alive. Grimnir felt a brief zephyr of relief pass over him before he returned his attention to M'Alga.

Little remained of the fire that had once encased the abomination, save for a few smoldering embers on the face, and a few remnants within the ribcage—and for that matter, little more remained of M'Alga himself. Neither scales nor flesh were to be found on the body now; all that was left of the necromantic horror was a blackened, burning skeleton.

But Grimnir was not satisfied—and M'Alga, against all wishes of the gods, _still was not dead_. The dragon lay such that his ribs were on full display for Grimnir, and the Arch-Mage could see the disembodied reptilian skull of the horror within, still grinning that rictus of death as its empty sockets stared down at Grimnir.

M'Alga moved—and Grimnir felt a twinge of heat snake through his body.

BANG.

The bolt struck M'Alga right through his left wing, shattering the bones and scattering them across the crater. M'Alga slumped to the ground, and the skull shifted in the ribcage—but its dead gaze still remained locked on Grimnir.

"No," he said, almost unheard over the raging storm that battered the mountain, as he walked toward M'Alga. Grimnir felt his teeth gritting against each other so intensely he felt as if they were being crushed to powder.

M'Alga moved again.

BANG.

This time it was the left wing. M'Alga's shriek of agony was neither dragon nor abomination; the Black Worm's ultimate weapon had been consumed by the lure of power so thoroughly that it was no longer possible to tell. With both wings splintered apart by lightning, the undead dragon could no longer stand. It crashed back into the crater—armless, powerless, and completely at Grimnir's mercy.

But Grimnir was in no mood for mercy. He could feel the power of the Dragonborn licking at his insides once again—and the spectral flames of his power licking at his outside, dancing over his skin with a faint warmth as they solidified into the dragon-scale shapes he'd seen before, covering his arms and chest like some ethereal chainmail.

And still he soldiered on, and continued to limp to the half-dead horror, not daring to stop or slow despite the pain that ravaged his body. _"No more,"_ he growled, as another twinge of fire streaked through him like a red-hot blade.

There was no haze to his vision—no sign of his consciousness falling prey to the Dragonborn's lust for conquest and power—and this time he was sure he knew why. He had been right; both of them had desired the same thing today in their quest to destroy M'Alga once and for all—and now, both of them could sense victory close and hand.

"No more!" Grimnir said again, his cry punctuated by another BANG of lightning that raked M'Alga along his spine, eliciting another shriek from the broken dragon. "I told you once—BANG—and I tell you today—BANG—no more! No—BANG—more!"

The lightning was striking far more intensely, far more frequently, and Grimnir could feel the raw Thu'um leaking from his mouth like molten metal, burning the roof of his mouth with every word he spoke. M'Alga's howls had morphed into one, long cry of agony, indistinguishable from the din of the wind and rain of the storm around them.

Grimnir looked the abomination right in the eye. "You will never touch the people of Skyrim again!" he bellowed over the gale and the lightning. "You will never darken our lands with your shadow for as long as I draw breath!

"Now _die_, damn you—_die_, for the _love of the gods, __**DIE!**_"

Grimnir felt his throat rip in two as the last word tore itself from his lips—and the lightning struck for the last time, dead center through M'Alga's neck. The skeletal dragon had no time to scream before the shocks traveled through the remnants of his body, obliterating his spine and legs, blasting his ribs asunder—and shattering the horned skull with the force of an exploding rune. The skull within the ribcage was thrown out by the force of the lightning, and rolled to a stop at Grimnir's feet—no longer grinning, no longer living.

And as Grimnir watched, the skull of M'Alga, and the dragon whose form he had stolen for his own, finally crumbled into ash … and he felt his anger ebb at last. At last—at long, _long_ last—M'Alga's threat to Skyrim had ended. The greatest weapon ever created by the Order of the Black Worm had finally been destroyed.

_It is done_.

As Grimnir's fury began to subside, replaced by an eerie sense of calm, the clouds of the storm he'd Shouted into being began to ebb. Sunlight streamed through the sky, and fell upon the ravaged mountainside, and the pulverized remains of had once been M'Alga, making the entire mound of fine ash seem to glow from within.

Grimnir felt his knees give way, and he collapsed where he stood, unwilling to move a muscle in his sudden fatigue. He was so tired he did not even notice the mound of ash beginning to glow brighter still, and see the tendrils of light and spirit reaching out for him as the soul of the slain dragon was drawn to his body. He felt only a slight warmth, and if he'd had the strength to listen, he might have heard a whisper of words, and _Words_, male and female, living and dead, echoing in his mind: _kogaan … pogaan …_ _thank you_ … but Grimnir heard none of it; he was too tired.

He imagined he was back at Winterhold, lying in a bed he'd hardly even tried out for himself because of this whole sordid affair. All he wanted to do was sink into its embrace … ignoring the pain, ignoring the world around him … he felt as if he could sleep for an entire Era …

"Grimnir? Grimnir?!"

And there's Onmund and the others, a distant part of his mind thought; he wished they wouldn't interrupt him … it felt so good here, to finally lay down at the close and never wake up again …

* * *

"Grimnir, wake up!"

But even as she shouted the words, Brelyna knew it was to no avail. The Arch-Mage had exerted a great deal of energy over the past week, with very little time to sleep in between. _It's a wonder this hasn't happened already_, she thought. But one look at the crater told her that they weren't nearly out of the woods yet. Whether their lives were in danger or not remained to be seen—but Grimnir needed to see this.

A shadow over them both told her Odahviing had dipped his neck towards them—and surprisingly low, too; his jaws were almost level with Grimnir's head, and bare inches away from the Arch-Mage's head.

It was only when those jaws opened that Brelyna realized what Odahviing was about to do—and she bolted at the exact moment Odahviing unleash a loud, long, bellowing _roar_ directly over the Arch-Mage's ears.

The effect was predictable, and immediate: Grimnir leapt into the air as if he'd been launched from a catapult—and wasted no time unloading a string of curses that Brelyna would never have thought possible, even from a Nord.

It took the better part of a dangerously long minute before the fully conscious Arch-Mage had calmed down enough to come to his senses. "I suppose I deserved that," he admitted to Odahviing, groaning in discomfort as he massaged his head. "After what I put you through today, I think you earned the right to pull a fast one on me."

Odahviing's eyes twinkled—a most un-draconic gesture—as he made a low, rumbling laugh in his direction.

"Now why is it," Grimnir said, turning to the mages, "that you went through all that trouble to wake me up?"

Brelyna swallowed—how to break this news to someone who'd just driven himself to unconsciousness in order to slay his enemy. "Remember what M'Alga said about his master coming for him?"

"Aye," came the half-hearted reply. "But M'Alga's been defeated now. Destroyed, even—not even bones of him left. His master, whoever he was, has to know this by now. There's no reason for him to come here anymore." Was it because of the fatigue, that Grimnir's words sounded so heavy—or did he truly not believe the words coming from his own mouth? Whatever the case, it was time he knew.

She reached out with a finger. "Well … you'd better look behind you."

* * *

Grimnir's reply had nothing to do with fatigue—he'd desperately wanted to believe that M'Alga was gone, and that everything was over. But even as punch-drunk as he was right now, he was still perceptive enough to hear the uneasiness in Brelyna's voice, and see the glances she was stealing somewhere behind him—the crater Odahviing and M'Alga had made, no doubt. He would have found this unremarkable had he not paid any attention to J'zargo and Onmund. Neither mage was even looking at Grimnir; they were instead fixated on what looked like the same point Brelyna was trying to focus on.

He had begun to turn around only slightly before Brelyna had told him to—and what he saw transfixed him.

As the ash left behind from M'Alga's remains had collected in the crater, the winds that constantly lashed the mountainside had begun to stir that ash into a pile roughly as deep as the Arch-Mage's knees, and half as wide again as he was tall. The ash still glowed with the last vestiges of the dragon's soul, prevented from reaching Grimnir until mere minutes ago by the foul magic of M'Alga.

Now something so strange was happening to that ash that Grimnir instantly knew the wind had nothing to do with it; something was manipulating the ash, down to each individual particle. Some were pulled towards a location, somewhere above the exact center of the crater, while others were shunted away, drifting upward and outward until they coagulated into two offshoots of the main mound—which was itself beginning to rise into the air, and being molded and kneaded as if it was merely wet sand in the hands of a child.

At first glance, Grimnir was reminded of the goat-horned helmets worn by the Nords of ancient times, still found today by any adventurer daring enough to see the draugr that still wore them. But the main shape of the mound was too rounded, and the offshoots too stumpy—and too angled in the middle. The collection of ash hovered there, like some strange, alien bubble—and then it began to mutate, its surface puckering here, expanding there, folding in and around itself at every turn.

Grimnir was surprised at his own lack of fear when he finally made the connection—the ash was assuming the form of a mortal being.

He was no artisan, but he could appreciate the human form in architecture when he saw it—from the angular faces carved from stone by the Nords of old, to the far more anatomically accurate representations seen in Cyrodiil and High Rock, painstakingly replicated over months, or even years of hard work. In sharp contrast to any of these, however, whatever force was controlling this ash had total disregard for proportion or accuracy—the form taking shape before Grimnir looked like a very, very fat man carved out of extremely porous stone by a man with the crudest of tools, and the most fleeting idea of how a body was supposed to look.

Only the face had been given any attention to detail—and though it was a face he had only seen once in his entire life, Grimnir knew that face well. It was the same face he had seen in his mind's eye when he had Shouted at M'Alga to distract him; his Shout of Dismay had found its mark, but also been reflected right back at him, and he had seen then a vision of something he knew little about—a face unlike any he had ever seen before on any person or creature in Tamriel … the same face Grimnir was now seeing on Ancient's Ascent, on this crude imitation of life.

The ash finally settled in its new form, and now the four mages beheld the result—a monstrous, tubular shape taller than any of them, and wider than it was tall. Four stubby appendages protruded from the massive belly of the thing; the bottom pair was larger, and might have served as legs if they were capable of touching the ground. The body was curled up into a vaguely pyramidal shape, and topped with a hairless, scabbed head with fleshy stubs for ears, and puffy eyelids narrowed over beady, black eyes. Thick lips, wider than a man's head, constantly moved in wet, smacking motions; equally large jowls flanked either end of this repulsive maw, quivering like sheets on a clothesline.

It was easily the most disgusting living thing Grimnir had ever seen in his life, and apparently the other mages thought so, too. Brelyna's face looked grayer than usual, even for a Dunmer. J'zargo's mouth was slack, and his eyes were widened, and he had taken several steps back in horror.

Only Onmund seemed to have retained the capacity to speak. "Who is … _What_ in Oblivion is _that?!_" he gasped.

J'zargo found his voice after several moments of stuttering. "Unless Khajiit's eyes are deceived," he said, "it is a _Sload!_"

"A _what_?" Onmund repeated, but Grimnir understood—though understanding wasn't the same thing as believing; the moment he'd heard the word Sload, his mind had instantly begun racing as if it was on skooma. Among all the culprits of this affair, whether speculated or confirmed, that species had been very near the bottom of that list.

But J'zargo's simple observation was like a light suddenly flickering on in the Arch-Mages mind; suddenly everything was beginning to make sense. The puzzle that had long frustrated him was beginning to assemble.

Grimnir had read one or two books about the Sload a couple years ago, back when he'd just enrolled with the College. The Sload were a very old, very intelligent race that hailed from the islands of Thras, far to the southwest of Tamriel. The Sload were also as nefarious as they were intelligent, almost two thousand years ago, they had been responsible for unleashing a disease so deadly and so widespread that half the population of Tamriel had been killed. That had led to the formation of the All Flags Navy—the most massive fleet ever assembled by the nine provinces of Tamriel—which had proceeded to attack Thras, and sink the islands with devastating magic.

Somehow, the Sload had survived this cataclysm—_exactly_ how, no one could be sure, but they had rebounded quickly; Grimnir had also remembered reading that several factions of Sload had reportedly taken part in the Alliance Wars twelve hundred years after that horrible plague—even supporting the Worm Cults of the time in secret, as Brelyna was now saying to Onmund.

"But the Sload haven't been seen in Tamriel in almost _seven hundred years!_" the Dunmer exclaimed in amazement. "I never would have _dreamed_ I'd get to see a living specimen in my lifetime!"

Grimnir neglected to point out that what they were seeing was only a recreation, not a genuine article—although the implications of this made the point moot. At any rate, he paid Brelyna's hysterics no mind; the more he was thinking about it, the more this entire scene made sense. Sload, despite all appearances to the contrary, were highly adept at magic—especially in necromancy, he'd read; the infamous N'Gasta, from the Second Era, was only one such product of their knowledge in the subject. If any mortal species had the power and audacity to resurrect a dragon, it would be the Sload.

_It fits_, he'd begun to think to himself. _It all fits! The Worm Cults … N'Gasta … M'Alga … conspiracy … the source of that tether, that _has_ to be Thras … necromancy … _and then his mind was thrown into a screeching halt as another thought occurred to him. He had just begun to take note of the ashy representation of the Sload's body; his eyes traveled downward from the face to its belly, then following the dough-like body round and round to the stubby tail that wriggled at one end like a worm.

No. Not a worm … a _grub_.

All of a sudden, Grimnir _knew_ who this was.

"It's you, then … isn't it?" he heard himself saying, as if from the other end of Skyrim. "It's _been_ you all along. _You're_ the grub Ancano told me about."

The repulsive face showed no movement other than the usual flapping of jowls, and the smacking of moist lips.

Grimnir paused, considered—and decided to go out on a limb. "You're the _real_ M'Alga, aren't you?"

_That_ got a reaction. His three companions had instantly turned on their heel in surprise, staring back at the giant ashen statue of the slug-like Sload floating before them. But no reaction was more noticed than that of the statue itself. The lips were no longer smacking; the jowls were no longer quivering … and the puffy eyes narrowed further still, looking unmistakably at Grimnir.

Then the lips began to move. "It speaks the truth, but does not flatter. This is good, yes—you command your words well for an Ice-born. This one is indeed who you claim, yes."

The words from the ashen figure took Grimnir aback; the deep, flat, _phlegmy_ voice was to be expected—but the words it was speaking were not. There was definitely a note of superior intelligence behind the total lack of emotion, but none of the arrogant smugness of, say, the Thalmor. In fact, Grimnir thought the Sload actually sounded _humbled_ by the recognition, despite the power he had put on display for them.

"This one is a prodigy," M'Alga continued to speak, "so say many others in the coral where this one makes its home, yes. There are those who even compare this one to N'Gasta as well, may His Corpulence inspire the grub-children for all time, yes. But this one is but a _grub_ compared to N'Gasta, and less still when next to the God of Worms himself, may his return be at hand, yes. This one is impressed, yes, that you would come to this conclusion so quickly … Dragonborn."

Those eyes were definitely looking at him now, Grimnir knew. For only a moment, the humility in M'Alga's words had vanished as he spoke the word "Dragonborn." In that moment, Grimnir felt a chill, and knew then and there that whoever this Sload was, he was more dangerous than anything the four mages had ever faced as a team—especially so in the way he had addressed the "God of Worms", one of the names necromancers used to refer to Mannimarco; M'Alga's emotionless voice had, for all too brief a moment, verged on religious fanaticism as he spoke the name.

"Other Sload like this one would look down on you, yes," M'Alga went on, "and label such impulsive thoughts as _folly_, and unworthy of further attention. But this one sees something else in your words, yes … perhaps a calm of confidence—or a calm before the storm, yes?

"And this power you possess … there is much to be learned from you yet, yes—although it is unfortunate that this one's creation did not survive to see his master face to face, no. Even if the reunion would have provided some benefit to the plans that have been set in motion, the amalgamation had already fulfilled his purpose, regardless of his loyalty—and regardless of how he exercised his power in his attempt to serve this one, yes."

_Plans?_ Grimnir wondered, as he listened to the Sload talking. Every word M'Alga was saying unnerved him greatly—especially when he had talked about the power Grimnir possessed. It wasn't a long stretch to wonder what power that might be; by the sound of it, M'Alga the monster had been a mere puppet for M'Alga the Grub. No doubt this Sload had witnessed every moment of what had happened in Windhelm—that, he suspected, was why he had attempted to take control of M'Alga the monster then, in response to that immense, unexpected power.

But this mention of plans was especially vexing; it told the Arch-Mage that all of this had been planned to some degree—that everything that had transpired over the past week had done so because of these so-called _plans_. But to what end? Grimnir wondered. What was to be gained from forging a living weapon of awesome power—only to see it destroyed and hardly bat an eye?

He stared back at M'Alga, looking the Sload back in his eyes. There was no trace of tears to be found in the beady black orbs, nor any trace of sadness whatsoever. Either he was an excellent actor under pressure, or he truly felt no sadness in the destruction of his terrifying creation. Neither option boded well for Grimnir.

"You have treated this one to a most excellent display of your power, Dragonborn, yes," M'Alga said. "Perhaps in the passing of time, this one will come to learn more about the strengths you possess, yes. But this one is prepared to wait until a more proper time comes to pass, yes, and so I shall give you the chance to arrive on an equal footing.

Grimnir frowned. What did he mean by 'an equal footing'? Was the Sload preparing to fight him?

"Before the sun has set, yes," M'Alga continued, "before this one returns to Thras and the kiss of its coral upon the flesh—you will have asked of this one three questions of your own design, yes. And this one shall swear, yes—though perhaps not by the gods and Daedra—to speak the truth to you, yes."

The Arch-Mage was even more confused. Was that all M'Alga wanted—to _talk?!_ Had this one Sload come all this way, from islands that hadn't been seen on the map in over a thousand years … simply to answer his questions?

He turned to his companions, desperate to hear an explanation. Neither of them seemed to understand this turn of events more than he did; all three were huddled up, talking amongst themselves, before Brelyna finally emerged.

"No sense in looking a gift horse in the mouth," she said in an undertone, as if hoping M'Alga wouldn't hear her. "This could be the only chance we have to find out more about the M'Alga we had to fight. Where he came from, why he was made. I just wish we could ask him more questions—but I think he was pretty adamant about only allowing three. Something tells me we shouldn't press our luck there."

Grimnir knew she was right, and nodded. The only question was, what to ask about _first?_ The obvious choice was, as Brelyna had pointed out, why M'Alga would create that abomination in the first place. But the Sload had made no bones about his affiliation with the Black Worm—that automatically made him their enemy. And as tempting as it was to ask about the whys and hows of this affair, Grimnir did not want to relent to a known enemy so quickly. No … it was best he establish his position first—let M'Alga know exactly who he was dealing with.

And he knew precisely where to start.

He cleared his throat, and spoke. "M'Alga … I want you to know that innocent people are dead because of the trouble you've caused in my homeland," he said, as clearly and menacingly as he could. "I wonder if that helps you sleep at night. Would you like to know a little bit about some of the people you've killed, just so you know how much I want to blast you into a bloody smear on the mountainside?"

A gurgling noise came from M'Alga, like rain on a clogged gutter, before the Sload gave his reply. "Flesh is flesh," he said simply. "To those who practice the noble art of raising the dead, it is merely an extension of the spirit it carries. You of the Ice-Born scar your flesh and tattoo it for the simple act of battle and intimidation, yes. In that mind, you and this one are perhaps not so different, no."

Grimnir made a very unpleasant noise of displeasure here; displeasure at a great many things—of being compared to a Sload, and of necromancy being called anything "noble" or "artistic". M'Alga was talking with the attitude of a complete sociopath—a being with absolute disregard for all life around him, no matter how precious or rare it was.

"The true aim of necromancy," explained the Sload, "is to preserve one's spirit for eternity in a vessel of great power, yes—for no spirit can be scarred or otherwise marked like flesh, no, and its existence is therefore worth maintaining, yes. As soon as this truth is made clear, flesh becomes little more than clay, yes, to be worked and fired to its potter's choosing, in the attempts to create a suitable container for such a thing."

Off to his right, Onmund grunted. "Certainly likes to hear himself talk, he does," he said in an aside to the Arch-Mage. "He hasn't even answered your question." Grimnir shushed him gently before he could speak again.

"What form this flesh takes in life is immaterial to this one, yes," M'Alga continued, either unaware of or unhindered by the interruption. "However, it occurs to this one that some of the flesh torn by the amalgamation belonged to one of your leaders—the one called Ravencrone, yes, who you Ice-Born claim to see the future. This one considered her domain a successful experiment for the amalgamation—though this one must acknowledge her response. While it was hasty, it was also issued with admirable timing. This one hopes that is a suitable answer to your question, yes."

Grimnir snorted. "Not really," he said with hostile sarcasm as he took a few steps. M'Alga had delivered his speech with no emotion whatsoever—not even a hint of remorse. He had acknowledged his responsibility for murdering Jarl Idgrod, and for all intents and purposes, seemed to be _satisfied_ that he had committed that horrible massacre—the wretched creature had even called it an experiment!

"Being a Dragonborn means many things, M'Alga," he said to the Sload. "Exactly what it means depends on who you ask—for some, I'm a warrior. For others, I'm a hero of the land … a gold standard. Still others think I'm fulfilling some grand destiny. And for a special few"—he glanced here at his companions—"I'm a friend."

He paused just long enough to take in the beaming looks from the three mages, and then continued, "But no matter how you look at it, it means having something to fight for—or some_one_. I fought for a lot of people while I chased your monster all over Skyrim. I fought for Jarls; I fought for generals and commanders. I fought for students and teachers—as well as my friends." A pause. "And I'll confess to fighting for myself on more than one occasion." The image of Bahlokmaar faded in and out of his mind for a moment, and of Onmund's tear-stained face.

"But through it all," he went on, "there was one person whom I fought for from the beginning. It wasn't a Jarl or a general. It wasn't a teacher, or a student—or even a friend. It was a person who might otherwise be forgotten today—someone who died without any knowledge of what her sacrifice would accomplish … without any idea that her disappearance would set off a chain of events that no one in Tamriel would ever have anticipated."

Grimnir took a breath. "Her name … was Isabelle Rolaine."

He heard the whispers of blank shock from the mages behind him, but paid no attention—all that concerned him was M'Alga's impassive face. "You never knew her," he goaded the Sload, raising his voice. "You never even cared to learn her name—not even when you had your minions butcher her and trap her soul! I won't let that stand—and if you had the audacity to bring your physical body here, I would kill you right now for what you did to her!"

"Sload are not audacious, Dragonborn," said M'Alga coolly. "They are far too careful for that, yes. Nevertheless, this one considers your sentiment admirable. There are few people like you in this land these days, yes; it is even possible there is _no one_ _else_ like you. Your death will be a great loss to the world when it comes, yes."

Grimnir ignored the veiled threat. As monstrous as M'Alga was, he had not sensed any hint of deception from the Sload with regards to the three questions—two, now—that he'd promised to answer. There was nothing to be gained from his death today, he knew.

With this in mind, he decided to ask his next question—the one he was aching to hear an answer to the most. "You led us on one hell of an adventure, M'Alga," he said. "Why did you create that monster of yours?"

"Sload have no concept of 'adventure,' no." M'Alga's reply was unexpectedly curt—almost as the question had left his feelings slighted in some way. "The closest this one would venture to describe such a loathsome word would be 'tragic disaster', yes."

Whether because of the roundabout way M'Alga was speaking, or his own desire to know the truth, Odahviing finally broke down. "My _thuri_ has asked you a question!" he yelled. "Do not test his patience!"

Grimnir shot a look at the dragon—patient, but patronizing—and Odahviing took a step back, must to his surprise.

"Well, M'Alga?" he asked, a little impatiently himself—he could sympathize with Onmund for his actions. "I'm waiting.

"You will wait longer, yes," answered the Sload. "And you will refrain from implying this one created that 'monster'. In matters of thought, the prototype was this one's creation, yes … but not in matters of the _word_."

Alongside, Grimnir heard Brelyna mutter "Prototype?" But he was too annoyed by the supercilious Sload to particularly care. "Get to the point, M'Alga," he grunted, not a little bit irritably.

M'Alga's ashen face squinted down at him. "Patience is a virtue, Dragonborn, and for none more so than the Sload," he said, slowly and deliberately enunciating each word. "The Thalmor you call Celeralmo—may his end be as swift as his methods—was just as impetuous as you are, yes, and as you can see here, his rash behavior has led to his undoing, yes."

_Celeralmo?_ Grimnir felt another piece of the puzzle slide into place as he repeated the name in his head. He recalled, from a very distant memory—as if it was months ago—a letter he'd found inside a desk, concealed from its recipient shortly before his demise …

_M'Alga has finally agreed to cooperate with us._

" … Now I understand," he said. "You colluded with the Thalmor. Celeralmo planned it; you carried it out. The Black Worm was just the middleman in this whole business."

M'Alga inclined his head in a slight nod. "As you say, yes." He gave no further confirmation than that. "However, it was at the request of Celeralmo that this one was to dedicate a faction of the Black Worm into fashioning an army of such creations as the one you destroyed, yes."

"What?!" It was Brelyna's turn to burst out—and Grimnir didn't bother stopping her this time. He was just as surprised. The High Justiciar of the Thalmor—the most powerful elf in all of the Summerset Isles—in command of an entire _army_ of evil creatures like that?! _One_ creature had nearly laid waste to all of Skyrim—was Celeralmo that mad, to unleash such power on the whole of Tamriel?!

"An appropriate reaction, yes," observed M'Alga. "However, this one did not see eye to eye with him in that regard, no. This one believed Celeralmo was acting too quickly, yes. His plan was … how do you say … half-baked, yes?" He paused here, as if waiting for a reply; not receiving one, he continued with his answer. "It was put together too quickly, yes; it existed only to fulfill a fantasy of the present world with no thought to the world of the future, yes. This one wished to make the elf see the error of his ways, yes."

"By trying to kill the Jarls of Skyrim?" J'zargo spoke up, his voice dripping with accusal.

M'Alga did not even look at the Khajiit as he continued speaking. "Celeralmo was … _persuaded_, yes, to allow this one to perform a demonstration of what just _one_ such creature was capable of—a tireless, interminable soldier, yes, conceived for war both on and off the battlefield, yes. By his standards, this one would imagine that Celeralmo would be pleased with the results—however, this one's standards were very different, yes."

"How so?" Brelyna blurted out, before Grimnir could stop her.

M'Alga paused for nearly a full minute before he spoke again. "As far as this one was concerned, the experiment was never about the Jarls of Skyrim, no—nor of the Emperor, or of the one you call Harbinger, or even success or failure of the amalgamation. The attempts on their lives were necessary to blind Celeralmo further, yes—but this one's real target, Dragonborn, has been … _you_, yes."

Grimnir suddenly felt numb as he felt five pairs of eyes slowly fix themselves on him. _Me?!_ His mind—heretofore buzzing with activity, of the puzzle pieces falling into place as the mystery of M'Alga, bit by precious bit, was solved before his eyes—had skidded to a halt, unwilling to accept the Sload's simply stated, casually delivered response. _He was seeking _me_ out … all this time, he was hunting _me_ down?!_

His third question had been completely forgotten—so confused was Grimnir at this unexpected turn of events that he was no longer sure if he'd even thought up a third question. But that did not matter—he knew now what to ask next.

"Why me?"

"Celeralmo believed assassinating the Jarls of your Skyrim through a third party—a party whose name carried a mutual loathing in both his eyes and yours—would destabilize the province, yes," M'Alga answered. "This one agreed with him … to a point, yes. Your Jarls have power … but _you_ have a completely different power, yes—one that is more _worthy_ of being tested by this one's creation, Dragonborn. It was the optimal solution to the problem presented by Celeralmo, yes—were you to die to the amalgamation, Skyrim would be left without a hero, and your death would accomplish more than killing any Jarl at all, yes."

Grimnir had to admit there was something to that, and a part of him could not help but complement M'Alga on his shrewd behavior. Outsmarting the most powerful Thalmor in the world was not an easy thing to do. And yet …

"There's something you're not telling me," he said. "I can see why you'd want to kill me—but I don't feel like I'm getting a full answer from you. Surely I'm not so well-known that the whole _world_ knows who I am!"

No sooner had that last word fallen from his lips that M'Alga did something completely unexpected: he smiled. Not an evil smirk, not a grin to some humorous joke—just a regular, if freakishly _wide_, bog-standard smile.

"Very good, Dragonborn," purred the Sload in unmistakable satisfaction. "Those were the exact words this one wanted to hear from your mouth. You are more well-known than you give yourself credit for. And while this one would like to attribute it to some heroic humility, this one is far more aware that your lack of knowledge is due to your own ignorance of the world around you. It is the same reason why this one … _neglected_ to tell Celeralmo his understanding that your death would not be achieved, regardless of how many amalgamations were created for the purpose."

What? Grimnir was now more confused than ever. All he seemed to understand was that M'Alga had withheld critical information from the High Justiciar—but why? To what end?

M'Alga, for his part, made a gurgling snort. "It goes against all fibers of the being, but this one shall be direct," he said. "For some time now, this one was in search of … a prophecy concerning you, yes. Recorded in the artifacts you refer to as … the Elder Scrolls, yes?"

The Arch-Mage felt his mouth go slack. Not only was this the last answer he'd expected—somehow, M'Alga had known about the prophecy of the Dragonborn, even from a place so far away as Thras—but M'Alga was also _wrong_. Apart from Grimnir, that prophecy was known only to a select few Blades within Sky Haven Temple, who guarded the legendary wall where the Akaviri of old had carved it—not in the Elder Scrolls.

"A prophecy … concerning me?" he eventually said, feeling his surprise melt away. "And Alduin, and the end of the world, I'm assuming? You're a couple of years too late for that, I think. Alduin is dead. I killed him myself."

M'Alga considered this. "Yes … and no," he said. "More this one will not say, no—or perhaps, more this one _cannot_ say. This one fears he has already overstepped his better judgment by speaking on the matter."

He coughed wetly, a noise that made Grimnir wince. "By this one's count, then, that makes three questions you have asked, and three truthful answers this one has provided. This one has fulfilled his promise to you—and now this one must leave you, Dragonborn, yes—but a parting gift is in order, to make sure that our paths will cross once more, yes."

Grimnir stepped forward. "Just a minute!" he barked. "I'm not letting you leave just like—!"

But the ashen form of M'Alga was already beginning to rise into the air—and had Grimnir been paying attention to the words of the Sload, he might have noticed that M'Alga was raising one of his stumpy "hand-feet" right at him.

As it was, the next thing he remembered was a flash of blue light, a deafening BOOM—and _pain_, pain beyond any he had ever experienced. He did not even feel his body being thrown backward from the force of the impact; his head was searing with flame—he was blind, he couldn't see a thing—the Arch-Mage could hear himself screaming like a madman over the ringing in his ears—or was it the screaming of his friends?—

Pandemonium erupted. "No!" he heard J'zargo yell, at the edge of his hearing.

"Brelyna!" He felt hands close down around him, straining against him as he continued to scream in agony.

"I've got him, Onmund! Hold him down!"

The voices of the three mages continued to babble and mix with one another—but they were slipping away, and Grimnir knew this was the end, that despite all their efforts, he was finally going to succumb to the pain—_he knew that he was going to die_.

And then, echoing in his mind—though he knew the source was long gone from this corner of the world—he heard the damnable voice of M'Alga.

_Fear not, Dragonborn. You will see this one again, yes, at the end of the beginning … and the beginning of the end … _

_…_

_…_

_…_

* * *

_To be concluded …_

* * *

**A/N: And it all begins to come together.**

**(oh god my fingers)**

**Okay, real-life update time. So, this break I've got planned out over next month might actually go on a little while longer than I thought. I'm going to be moving to a different apartment at the beginning of August—and any of you who've had to do that in your lives knows how tedious that process can be. I figure I'll have about a month or so more of not being able to write as much as I'd like before I'm fully settled in.**

**Also, I'm in talks with a photography agency concerning a position in their local branch. It's work-from-home, so I'm told, but it's also very travel-intensive—and so it's not going to leave me with a lot of free time should I end up landing the job. Nevertheless, even though a twice-monthly schedule may no longer be a possibility in that scenario, I still want to keep on writing as much as I can for as long as I'm able. If you don't see my usual glut of words being churned out, at the very least, you'll know why in advance.**

**Thanks for understanding, and thanks for reading. The epilogue should be out soon. Hope you enjoy it! - K**


	14. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

He heard the wind howling, but could not fathom how or why he could not feel it on his flesh, or even where the noise was coming from. He wasn't even sure he was hearing the wind at all. All he was certain of was that every inch of his body felt like it had been bled and beaten—and nowhere did it feel worse than his face.

And then, the memories crashed down around him in an avalanche; he remembered the undead dragon, the true face of M'Alga, the spell, the light … the pain … and the last words of the Sload …

_He … didn't kill me … ?_

With a great effort, he tried to open his eyes—or one of them, at least. The right eye ached with a stabbing pain so intense that Grimnir could not even move the lid. He saw several moving shapes at the edge of what little vision he had; they looked human, but beyond that, he could make out nothing.

"Where … what … ?" His lips did not want to move, and so his first words came out very mumbled. He felt cloth rubbing against his lips and cheeks, and over every inch of his arms and chest—even his head, save for his eyes.

"Lie down, Arch-Mage." It took a long time for his stirring consciousness to place the voice: Colette Marence, the restoration instructor, gentle but firm, like a mother. "Don't try to move to quickly. You've been through a lot."

"The College … " Grimnir groaned. " … When?"

"You've been out for a whole week, my dear boy." _Tolfdir_, he knew immediately—no amount of pain or injury would ever make him forget that kindly old voice. "It took a whole day and a half for Onmund and the others to carry you to Falkreath—and another day and a half to cart you back here."

Grimnir blinked his left eye, and his vision suddenly came into focus; he was back inside his quarters at the College. Colette and Tolfdir were looming above him, while the faces of J'zargo, Brelyna and Onmund were hovering just behind them. All of them wore the same look of concern on their faces—no one seemed to be relieved that he had regained consciousness.

"What happened?" he finally managed to say—he'd never thought it would take so much effort just to string two words together.

"Direct hit from a lightning spell," Colette said. "We had your friends fill us in when they came back, and frankly, after what they told me, it's a wonder that blast didn't kill you. Second- and third-degree burns are difficult to heal, even with magic."

"The lightning spell was cast from a proxy to this M'Alga," added Tolfdir, "and that may be the only reason why that bolt wasn't as strong as it could have been. If he'd actually been there, right in front of you, then … oh, my boy … " He let the implications hang, and gave a shudder most unlike the normally unflappable Master Wizard.

Grimnir felt some of the pain leaving him as someone tipped a potion into his mouth—probably Colette, he thought, though he could not see her with his right eye still refusing to obey him.

"My eye … " he said. "Why can't I see out of this eye?"

Immediately all was quiet—and immediately Grimnir knew something was _very_ wrong. Slowly, he raised a bandaged hand, ignoring the leaden feeling that suddenly pressed down on it from the shoulder to the fingers.

Onmund started. "Grimnir, don't—"

But the Arch-Mage sat up, and everyone present took a step backward. "Why can't I see?!" Grimnir demanded, raising his voice, noticing it felt much more scratchy than usual. "Answer me!"

But no one answered him … and only a few moments later, as he raised his fingers to his brow with difficulty, Grimnir found out why—and he needed no sensation in his arm at all to realize what had happened.

Where there should have been an eyelid, there was only an empty space that stretched deep into the skull. Blackened flesh lined the rim of the hole; Grimnir felt his finger brush it for only a moment, and the pain that flared up was so intense that he had to bite his lip until the blood flowed in order to stave it off.

But for once, the pain was merely an afterthought for Grimnir Torn-Skull as he slowly realized that _he'd lost an eye_.

"I'm so sorry, Arch-Mage." Brelyna looked close to tears, and her voice was much higher than normal. "Colette was only able to seal up the scar tissue, and even then … " She swallowed, and averted her gaze from Grimnir's own. "Even the priests of Kynareth could never have fully healed an injury like that. I'm so very sorry."

Onmund did not speak. His face had gone the grayish-white of half-melted slush, and all the spark that had hitherto been in the young Nord's eyes was nowhere to be found. He looked utterly woebegone—and J'zargo didn't look much better

The Khajiit pressed something into Grimnir's lap. "Here, friend," he purred, "though I fear this face is not quite so handsome as yours."

Grimnir's bandaged fingers felt the cold edges of the object, and he realized what it was: _Morokei_.

Without a second thought, he covered his mutilated face with the moonstone mask, and immediately felt its ancient magic wash over him. The pain was dulled almost instantly, but it did not disappear; the ravaged eye socket felt as though someone was still scraping around inside it with a very blunt needle.

"Damn it," he growled, cursing the Sload who had caused the world so much grief, and him so much harm, with every breath he took. M'Alga had lured him into a false sense of security, he now realized; by answering those questions, Grimnir had let his guard down. Confident that his friends would even the odds, he had now realized that was simply not true. M'Alga had no intention of fighting them at all—he'd been toying with them from the start.

_Damn it_, he continued to swear. _Damn it. Damn it!_

"There was nothing we could have done against him," Brelyna said again, tentatively. "None of us were about to take M'Alga on when we saw him cut you down the way he did. J'zargo didn't even see him flinch—he knew what he was doing when he did this to you. We made a decision to get you out of there as quickly as we could—you were more important to us than the Sload."

"Not like he gave us any chance to strike back anyway," added Onmund sullenly. "The moment he cast that lightning, he started turning back into that ash pile from that dragon. He was gone before you hit the ground."

A sudden noise caught Grimnir's attention, far off to his right, beyond the range of his vision: footfalls, heavy and armoured. Everyone else looked up, and suddenly rose to their feet—even Tolfdir and Colette. The looks in their eyes had morphed from concern to surprise in a matter of moments.

The footfalls stopped, and then, a voice—one that Grimnir had only heard once before in his life—but was etched into his mind because of how recently he had heard it, and more importantly, what had happened at that time.

"Solitude has fallen," declared Varulf Blackmane, Stormblade to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, and Harbinger of the Companions. "General Tullius is dead. Skyrim is free."

The world seemed to grow silent as the last words fell from his mouth; no one dared speak a word.

Grimnir felt a sudden, strange emptiness spreading throughout his insides. He had completely forgotten about the civil war; he'd even seen the armies marching west to Solitude as they flew on Odahviing in pursuit of M'Alga. But the battle atop Ancient's Ascent had eclipsed it completely.

And now, it was over. _The war was over_.

Finally, after a long time, the Arch-Mage cleared his throat. "Leave us," he said, his vocal cords unable to say the words in anything else besides a gruff bark. "All of you—go now."

Why he had suddenly decided to say the words, Grimnir had no idea. But the mages rose to obey his command all the same—though Brelyna and the others lingered behind for several long seconds before disappearing down the hallway, leaving the two Nords behind to talk.

Neither Grimnir nor Varulf broke the silence between them for some time. The Arch-Mage, from his supine position on the bed, could a sliver of the Stormcloak elite out of Morokei; Varulf looked badly scratched in places, and his armor sported several new dents and tears. But Grimnir still envied him for at least being able to stand on his own two feet.

"Jarl Ulfric and I wanted to thank you, for what you did for him," the Harbinger finally said. "You never stayed long enough, though."

"Pressing engagements," grunted the Arch-Mage. His voice sounded so much stranger through Morokei's mask—it was like he was hearing a whole different person talk. "I'm sure a man of his stature could understand."

"Ah, yes. The Dragonborn goes only where he is needed, is that right?" There was an unusual tone in Varulf's words; they almost sounded distasteful, mocking. "But who dictates that, I wonder? Do only the gods see fit to guide you through your life, Arch-Mage?"

Grimnir sighed—of course that was why he sounded so bitter. "Don't start this again with me, Varulf," he grumbled. "There was a reason I turned down your invitation to fight the Empire."

"Oh? And what was that?"

The Arch-Mage paused. He had told the same thing before to the envoys that had arrived on his doorstep, asking him time and again if he would fight under their banner. All of them had used the same argument, and so all of them had received the same rebuttal. But Varulf was much different from any Stormcloak Grimnir had yet encountered—the zeal was there, the patriotic fervor that every so-called son or daughter of Skyrim possessed—but there was something else there, deep inside his bloodshot eyes … something different … and he could not fathom what it might be.

_… seems to think that having one faction's allegiance will help spread the word throughout the province …_

And Grimnir understood. The Harbinger of the Companions wasn't simply fighting for the Stormcloaks—or even for Skyrim. He was fighting for something far more abstract than home and country … but far more powerful.

_Dah ro fus_, the rumbling voice of Odahviing now echoed in his mind. _It is in your nature to change the balance of the forces in this world, for better or worse._

The language of the dragons, as Grimnir knew, carried many layers of allegory and symbolism; even a master translator would have difficulty understanding all of those layers. Even Grimnir, though he knew those Words to mean "push," "balance," and "force," respectively—indeed, he could even Shout them all, though in a different order. But he had never truly understood the _words behind the Words _.

Until now.

When he looked back on it later, Grimnir would come to think that this moment had been some kind of divine intervention—though for good or evil, he could not yet say. He did not feel as if his actions were his own—though with the state of his body, it was impossible to tell for sure.

But somehow, he now knew what he needed to say—what he needed to do.

"_Dah ro fus_," the Arch-Mage eventually responded.

"Hmm?" Varulf leaned forward, evidently not expecting this answer.

"_Dah ro fus_," Grimnir said again. "I _push_ at the _balance_ of _force_—be it to bring order to chaos, or the other way round. I chose not to take sides because I knew that no matter who I sided with—Ulfric or Tullius—it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't be the ones to seize victory—_I_ would. I was afraid that if I threw my hood in the ring, then I would be sealing the doom of either you or the Empire. I didn't want to bring that doom down upon anyone."

Varulf looked perplexed—not an easy accomplishment for a man wearing the armor he was. "What do you mean?"

Grimnir sighed again. "I hoped things wouldn't have to come to this, Varulf … but now I have no other choice."

He pointed his free hand downwards at the floor. "Go to the Arcanaeum downstairs, and tell the Orc in charge that I want the book he saw me reading last week. Tell him those exact words. He'll know what it means."

The Harbinger frowned, but nodded sympathetically. "Of course. I can understand if you want something to pass the time while you recover, but I'd like to know why—"

"The book's not for me," Grimnir interrupted. "It's for _you_." He raised a hand before the shocked Stormblade could interject. "I want you to read that book, Varulf—and I want you to keep on reading it until you know every word by heart, until the ink of every letter is burned into your mind. I hope you will find it in you to do what you think is right from there."

By now, Varulf looked scared out of his mind. "What are you talking about?" he cried. "What do you mean?!"

Grimnir only spoke three Words. "_Dah ro fus_."

Varulf drew back, clearly perturbed, and Grimnir instinctively knew the Harbinger had been listening; he too understood the meaning behind the Words—or at least one of their meanings. Though neither of them would know how those three little Words would come to shape Skyrim in the years to come, there was a very small part of Grimnir's mind that was beginning to wonder if he might indeed be changing the world as he knew it, just by lying down on this bed, and speaking the words he had to the warrior by his side.

Varulf bit his lip as if to say something, but evidently thought better of it, and left his quarters without a word. Grimnir watched him leave until the Stormblade had left his gaze, then fell back into his bed with a soft _whoomph_.

"That was well handled," said a voice, airy as Colovian brandy and twice as refined. "It isn't every era that the world has to be saved so often."

Grimnir knew that voice, too—but was too occupied with his wounds and his words to be startled by the fact that its owner had appeared quite literally out of nowhere. That wasn't to say he was surprised by this unexpected visitor—in hindsight, given recent events, he should have expected him to appear much sooner.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you," he grunted, "but what are you doing here?"

Quaranir hovered into his vision, his footsteps not making a sound as he stopped directly in front of Grimnir's bed. "I wished to personally convey the Psijic Order's deepest regrets for your current state," the monk said solemnly, "and our best wishes that you may recover in due time to combat the rising threat of … "

But Quaranir cleared his throat here with a little cough, and did not finish his sentence. " … Yes, well," he continued, as though nothing had happened, Loremaster Nerien also sent me to bring you a warning."

Grimnir stared back with his single eye. "I'm listening."

"Perhaps you are not yet aware how Tamriel at large might react in the event they were to … _discover_ the extent of Celeralmo's actions," the Psijic said. "Collaborating with Sload and necromancers, for instance. Such things are abhorred by the Thalmor. If the world were to find out what the Dominion had done … "

Only a last-second flare of pain kept Grimnir from sitting bolt upright in alarm. "You're suggesting we break the news?" he rasped. "That'd be a prelude to war!"

That was no exaggeration, he knew. The Thalmor might be the majority opinion in the Summerset Isles, but Grimnir was certain there had to be some form of opposition—underground or otherwise. And this wasn't counting their protectorates of Valenwood and Elsweyr, either—the Khajiiti criminal organization called the Renrijra Krin was even openly opposed to the Thalmor's regime, last he had heard. Finally, Hammerfell and Skyrim—who had both been in opposition to the Empire's capitulation to the Dominion in the White-Gold Concordat, would definitely not take this lying down. Even the remnants of the Empire would undoubtedly consider this an unconscionable action.

Quaranir nodded. "A war which, I regret to say, is not one that your world is ready to win as it is now," he said. "There is still much to be done before the conflict to come rears its head—and even you will not be able to make it all possible yourself. But rest assured, you and I—and Celeralmo, though he does not yet know it—have already set the wheels in motion."

It was Grimnir's turn to feel confused. "You and … what are you talking about?" he asked, though something in the Psijic's tone told him he was not going to like the answer. "Out with it—what did you do?!"

* * *

_Alinor_

_Earlier that week_

"_Damn_ that obese little _maggot!_"

If one word could describe the scene in the office of the Highest and Most Eminent Justiciar of the Third Aldmeri Dominion at this moment, it would have to be tense. That said, the two high elves that currently occupied that office were each feeling tense for equally different reasons.

Melanwe looked as though she had been to the Quagmire and back. The moment Celeralmo had interrogated the survivors of her ill-fated expedition into the cave where His Eminence had been holding M'Alga, and discovered the Sload had somehow not only bypassed, but _nullified_ all the defenses and wards the Mages' Guild had laid into it, Celeralmo had immediately stripped her of her Justiciar rank and shouted at her for roughly an hour before ordering her to prepare him a fresh pitcher of Isgareth nectar.

That pitcher now sat on Celeralmo's desk, where it was still wobbling slightly; the High Justiciar had slammed his fists on the furniture in a fit of such unexpected—some might even have said _un-Altmerish_—violence that it had nearly toppled over the edge and spilled its invaluable contents onto the floor—and no doubt Melanwe would have been in even more trouble then.

As for her, she too sat in the office, directly in front of Celeralmo's desk as her superior paced back and forth along the window—just another one of his attendants. _A glorified servant girl—again_. But Melanwe was too terrified to care that her gaffe had cost her a promising career opportunity, and most likely her parents' standing with the Sunhold nobility. Celeralmo had been so enraged at the news that she was lucky to still have her neck—and luckier still to have avoided prison or reeducation.

"I knew he was a snake, and I _still_ let him bite me!" fumed the High Justiciar now. He gave a long, suffering sigh, then abruptly turned to Melanwe as if he'd just now noticed she was here. "Well, go on, then! Speak your piece and begone!"

Not wanting to waste any more time than was necessary to be in the same room with an exceptionally angry Altmer, Melanwe began speaking immediately. "The Harbormaster has just reported back, Your Eminence. No ships arriving from the west have been sighted alongside the coast since the embargo you issued last week. If he left for Thras, it wasn't by boat."

"And the caves beneath Alinor have already been scoured, no trace was found, and so on and so on," snorted Celeralmo imperiously. "Tell me something I don't already know. You have suffered enough consequences for your failure in the cave, Melanwe. Do not presume to disappoint me again."

"Now," the Altmer said, finally returning to his seat, "if you have no good news to deliver to me today, I suggest you get out of my sight before you come to regret it."

Melanwe had dashed from her seat before Celeralmo had finished his sentence, without so much as a "Yes, Your Eminence." She was too relieved to care that she'd committed a _faux pas_ of Altmer propriety—so much so, in fact, that only at the last possible moment did she avoid colliding with the runner that had suddenly burst into the office.

"High Justiciar!" the teenaged elf cried breathlessly, not even looking at a red-faced Melanwe as she bustled through the doorway. "From Skyrim—it appears to be the Arch-Mage of Winterhold!"

He carried a tiny scroll that Celeralmo telekinetically snatched from his grasp before he'd even skidded to a halt. The messenger, evidently just now noticing the dark look on his face, saluted to the High Justiciar, and then strode from the room at a near sprint without a word, or any further response.

Celeralmo wasted no time in drawing a blade across the ribbon that bound the scroll, slicing it open with hardly a sound. His eyes alighted upon the words on the parchment—three lines, each a simple sentence, but with each one he read, the High Justiciar's eyes grew narrower and colder:

_We know what you are doing._

_We will be watching you._

_And we will be ready._

His nostrils flared as the last word was burned into his mind, and Celeralmo felt his free hand harden into a fist so tightly that his knuckles were white in seconds.

"Leave me," he growled at the half-dozen Altmer that constantly guarded his office around the clock. "All of you—get out, now!"

By all rights, especially considering Celeralmo's rising temper, the guards were well within their rights to have made a mad dash for the door like Melanwe or the messenger boy. But none of them had been singled out like she had, and they were more familiar with the darker moods of their charge than most in the Dominion. And so, with a crisp salute, they marched out single-file through the door, and closed it with a quiet snap.

The High Justiciar walked to the window of his office with an eerie calm that did not suit his mood at all. While he was not given to fits of rage—proper Altmer were more composed than that, after all; they did not behave like beasts and bloodthirsty savages—that did not mean the temptation hadn't entered his mind in the past, just as it was now. Only a faint note of pride kept him from losing his temper again; the plan he had set in motion had not been a complete failure, after all.

Celeralmo wondered how the College of Winterhold would react if he came to discover that those necromancers were by no means adored in Alinor any more than in other parts of the civilized world. It was perhaps the one thing he would admit to having in common with their Arch-Mage, whom he had heard so much about following his very rude astral projection right in front of his desk—they both hated the Order of the Black Worm. But where the Nords of Skyrim, brutish as always, were determined to wipe them out without a second thought, Celeralmo had planned to accomplish the same thing—but in a far more subtle way, and with much more welcome results.

The plan had started off so simply—send one of his most trusted and accomplished agents in Ancano to Winterhold, under the pretense of acting as an advisor to the Arch-Mage there—but given secret orders to shadow the day-to-day routine of everyone there, inform Celeralmo directly of any unusual artifacts uncovered by the College—and to await further instructions pending further developments abroad.

Said developments had commenced the moment Celeralmo had secretly sent envoys to the isles of Thras in the preceding year; he had heard of the mastery of the subject of necromancy in that far-off place, and was determined to discover more. While he abhorred the practice on principle, Celeralmo nevertheless held a grudging admiration for anyone who was exceptionally proficient at it. Mannimarco was a universally reviled figure, but that did not stop a considerable few from constantly naming him among the most powerful and famous of mages to ever have lived—which, in fairness, wasn't wrong by any means. Moreover, Celeralmo was well aware of the old proverb: _to defeat an enemy, one must first know his enemy_.

At length, the envoys had returned back to Alinor sooner than he expected, and his plan bore an unexpected amount of fruit—not only had they proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the necromantic powers of the Sload were unmatched in all the world, but they had brought an actual, living Sload with them. Of course, Celeralmo had no intention of meeting him face to face, as he preferred not to become too attached in one of his means to an end—but even so, when he had heard this, he immediately sensed that he had the potential to accomplish a great many things.

By that time, Ancano had responded with several updates, several of them detailing an artifact he claimed with certainty to be the fabled "Eye of Magnus." And even as his agent mentioned tales of the Psijic Order becoming personally involved—to say nothing of a novice beginning to sniff around in places he ought not be—again Celeralmo felt the winds of fate shifting in his favor. Here he had an opportunity to eradicate perhaps the greatest opponent to his plan in one fell swoop—but a third and final unexpected windfall brought Celeralmo to ultimately act sooner than he would have believed.

No sooner had their Sload, who called himself M'Alga the Grub, been taken in absolute secrecy to the caves beneath Alinor than he proved to be a goldmine of information—and more importantly, an ally who was even willing to assist Celeralmo without the High Justiciar having to get his hands dirty.

And yet …

Perhaps, the High Justiciar thought now, as he stared at the shimmering skyline of the Dominion capital, this was where the wheels of the cart had begun to wobble. Ancano's reports were growing more worrisome—and the Stormcloak uprising was beginning to destabilize once more, after the all-too-brief peace manufactured by the Dragonborn. This had put the Dominion's own plans in jeopardy, as they recognized the Empire and Skyrim alike as two forces with the potential to challenge them, and knew they had to be weakened from within sufficiently enough to render their military might negligible—and Celeralmo, damn him, had no idea how to fix it.

So it was that, in a stroke of inspirational genius, he had decided to make M'Alga solve it for him.

In hindsight, he thought, the Sload had been almost _too_ willing to assist him. M'Alga had claimed that a sect of necromancers yet survived in Skyrim, and that they would provide the perfect means to carry out a creation they had previously discussed: a monstrous, invincible fighter, with the characteristics and strengths of every sentient race in Tamriel—and with none of their weaknesses.

Celeralmo wasted no time in contacting Ancano to verify these claims—_investigate, but do not engage_, he had made clear in his letter—and then ordering the Sload to make any preparations he needed in order to fashion a fighting force of these creations. But here, for once, M'Alga had been adamant; he had refused to make any more than one of them. His reasoning had been sound, Celeralmo had admitted—not only did the process consume precious time and resources that the Dominion needed, but also that a single one of them would provide a better testing subject than, say, a thousand.

But the High Justiciar was not deterred; indeed, only a slight adjustment in this phase of the plan had made it to both their suiting. And Ancano's subsequent response had been so perfectly timed that Celeralmo suspected divine intervention: the Thalmor agent had found a "nest of worms" in several caves not far from Winterhold.

Celeralmo knew then and there the time was now to act. He instructed M'Alga to relay instructions to the sects of necromancers Ancano had identified—and he contacted the agent with what would be his final letter, and ordered him to carry out his secret orders.

And yet …

He knew what happened next, despite not hearing any news of it for some time. Ancano killed Savos Aren—and then, not one week afterwards, the novice from before killed Ancano, and became Arch-Mage in Savos' place.

The timing could not have been worse—especially with the Stormcloaks sacking a vital city in Skyrim. If the wheels were not beginning to come off already, they certainly had started then. But Celeralmo was determined to press on, and he ordered M'Alga to target certain persons in Skyrim with the living weapon he was responsible for making and guiding—the two main players in the Civil War, for instance: Jarl Elisif and Jarl Ulfric.

At first, the reports were promising. M'Alga's weapon singlehandedly brought the city of Morthal to near-total destruction, and murdered a respected Jarl as well. But then the Dragonborn began to interfere—everywhere M'Alga struck, he was there to intercept him. And to make matters more irksome, M'Alga was not returning his letters—and only too late did Celeralmo realize what was going on: the Sload wasn't just going off the script, but he had had no intention of assisting the Dominion at all.

The entire plan to create a living weapon had been a ruse to further the Sload's own plans—M'Alga had only told Celeralmo enough that the Altmer had foolishly believed their goals were one and the same. The Sload had deliberately withheld information from him, and disobeyed direct orders from his master. And in the span of a week, Celeralmo had seen everything he had planned come crashing down around him—M'Alga fleeing his cave, Melanwe's debacle in said cave … and the Sload's greatest weapon destroyed by the hated Dragonborn.

And yet …

Through all this failure, Celeralmo knew there was at least one part of his plan that still had some chance of success. He was well aware that M'Alga's assaults on the major cities in Skyrim, while ultimately ineffective, had still been responsible for much death and destruction—enough so that the world at large might take notice, and devote itself to stamping out the hated Worm once and for all.

The battle would not be easy, he knew. Though Celeralmo was already mentally writing a speech in his head that would endorse all efforts to rid the earth of the Order of the Black Worm—and deflect any suspicion from any skeptics who might suspect foul play in the process—the High Justiciar was well aware of the strength those necromancers possessed. Every military force in the nation would be so devoted to fighting them that either a victory or a loss against them would leave them completely exhausted. _Vulnerable_. It was not unlike the scenario that the Thalmor had envisioned in Skyrim, only applied on a much wider scale—a scale that, if balanced the right way, would give Alinor the dominant military force in Tamriel, and give the Dominion free will to carry out any plans they desired. Though the risk was high, the payoffs would be unimaginable.

And yet …

There was a reason why Celeralmo did not like to gamble. He wanted to have a plan for everything to make sure the Thalmor became the dominant force throughout the land. But sometimes, even the best-laid plans could be undone by a mere moment of chance—and the Dragonborn had certainly been more than just a mere moment.

He was going to be a problem, Celeralmo knew. Perhaps it was time the Dominion address him directly.

The high elf moved towards a bell he kept on his desk to summon whoever was outside his door—any one of the guards outside would suffice. He rang it—and before the echoes had dissipated from the office, one such guard had presented himself before his desk.

"Yes, Your Eminence?"

Celeralmo's blue eyes locked on the guard's amber stare. "I want all Emissary-level operatives in our intelligence division before my desk within the hour. I want no excuses and no exceptions—and you may tell them their lives and positions are forfeit if even _one_ of them does not show by _precisely_ the appointed time."

"Immediately, Your Eminence." The armored elf saluted. "Will that be all?"

Celeralmo considered this for precisely one silent second. "I will need to see the Archmagus at his earliest convenience. There are some questions of a … sensitive nature I wish to discuss with him. That will be all."

The guard bowed stiffly, and disappeared from the room, once again leaving Celeralmo alone.

At length, the High Justiciar sat back down upon his desk, and unlocked a drawer where he kept his more _unsavory_ documentation. Currently, the only such papers in this drawer were all bound in a plain folio of black cured leather with gold lettering in the center. The letters were far from flowing, thin, and beautiful, as would normally befit Altmer culture—but the large, capital letters of the printed words served to further convey an undisputable message:

**_THE DOCUMENTS HEREIN HAVE BEEN DESIGNATED LEVEL BLACK BY DOMINION INTELLIGENCE._**

**_ANY UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION OR DISSEMINATION OF THIS MATERIAL WILL BE CONSIDERED GROUNDS FOR TREASON AGAINST THE ALDMERI DOMINION._**

Celeralmo, of course, was more than authorized—he was the one who had issued the order to classify them in the first place. Wary of dissenters who might go to extraordinary measures to explain his rationale—and in so doing could uncover one of the Dominion's uglier secrets—he had pushed the intelligence division to seal up every shred of information they possessed on Ancano and M'Alga. From there, a representative of the Mages Guild would take charge of the documents—and destroy them posthaste. _No mess, no fuss … and _especially_ no loose ends_.

Yet there was one more loose end that needed to be addressed—and Celeralmo would be damned by the Eight if he let the latest political developments in Skyrim keep him from tying it up.

He reached in another drawer for his best quill and a fresh bottle of ink, and then for a fresh sheaf of parchment. The High Justiciar had called the senior operatives of Dominion intelligence here today for a very specific reason—they were to concentrate all otherwise unnecessary effort on hunting down a very specific person.

He took a quick draught of Isgareth nectar, wiped his lips, and began to write:

_FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION (EMISSARY-LEVEL)_

_CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT – INTERNAL USE ONLY_

_SUBJECT: GRIMNIR TORN-SKULL (TARGET ONE)_

And below that, in slightly smaller letters:

_Status: Active (Hostile, Exterminate on Sight), Highest Priority, Regent-level Approval_

* * *

_Winterhold_

Several more weeks had passed by the time Colette Marence judged Grimnir healed enough to leave his bed. The month was about to draw to a close; the beginning of spring was on the horizon—the time of healing that followed the long, brutal struggle of winter. Whiterun and Solitude were rebuilding the damage they suffered even now, and Skyrim was indeed beginning to heal after the civil war that had ravaged the land—but it would take time before both the cities and the province had returned to their old strength.

Even Grimnir was healing—just not as well or as quickly as he would have preferred. He grimaced as he gingerly put down his foot, steadying his legs on the simple cane. The aid was only for the time being, fortunately, but Colette had insisted that he use it; in her words, the injuries that Grimnir had suffered on Ancient's Ascent even before the reveal of M'Alga had been "quite enough damage in one man's lifetime."

The Arch-Mage limped over to a polished mirror in his quarters, gazing sadly at the face that stared back at him. He had never been too proud about his appearance in the first place; his blond hair could have been found on every other Nord in the province, along with his blue eyes. But as the old saying went, you never knew what you had until it was lost forever—and as he pulled down the mask he wore, the face he must now show to the world, Grimnir found himself longing for the face he'd had until only recently.

He had never cared for looking the part of a hero—actions spoke louder than even his Words. Nevertheless, he was beginning to believe that most people in Skyrim—and many more hereafter, he was beginning to suspect—would be needing to put a face to the legendary hero they knew him to be. What Grimnir had seen in the mirror that day—the bald, shredded skin, scarred, blackened flesh, and single blue eye that now lay under the mask of Morokei—would never be accepted as the face of a hero.

For now, this—the mask of an enemy—would have to do.

And Grimnir knew by now the Thalmor would make an enemy out of him yet. He had not approved of how Quaranir had circumvented authority, and forged that letter to the High Justiciar himself to make it appear as though it had been from Grimnir's own hand. But he knew it was pointless to argue—the Psijics, after all, had assisted him invaluably once before, and they were better placed than he to observe the affairs unfolding in Alinor. And at any rate, Quaranir had also left Winterhold without either word or sound before the Arch-Mage could discuss the point.

He hobbled out of his study, thinking he ought to stretch his recovering legs outside. It was very slow work, especially as he descended the spiral stairs that led up to his quarters. Grimnir prayed to Kynareth that he would make a speedy recovery—not simply for his own sake, but for the rest of the world. He knew full well the threat that lay beyond the horizon—of Celeralmo, of M'Alga the Grub, and a revitalized Order of the Black Worm.

And this prophecy—the one M'Alga had spoken of. It sounded as though it was related to the symbolic pictures the Akaviri of old had inscribed in Sky Haven Temple—the return of the dragons, of Alduin, and of the Dragonborn … and the climactic battle that had taken place between them, at the end of the world. Grimnir could not for the life of him wonder why the Sload was interested in such a thing, or how had he had come to possess the knowledge of either them or the Elder Scrolls in the first place.

But they could wait. Though this so-called prophecy certainly bore investigating—and the first chance Grimnir got, he would be doing precisely that—at the moment there was another threat that needed to be dealt with first. A closer and more convenient one by far, to be sure, yet by no means less pressing than necromancers and Thalmor, or Sload and Scrolls.

"Solstheim?" Brelyna Maryon repeated.

The Arch-Mage's path had taken him along the Arcanaeum, where the Dunmer had spotted him from a table laden with books. She'd cleared a space and appropriated an extra chair so Grimnir could sit with her; grateful for a respite, he'd obeyed. The two had sat there talking for some time, about the implications of M'Alga's brief visit, and what it might mean for the rest of the world in the years to come. Inevitably, though, the subject had strayed onto the three strange Dunmer they'd met on the way to Windhelm, their denouncing of Grimnir as a false Dragonborn … and that name, Miraak.

"Someone over there knows who I am, Brelyna," Grimnir said to her, having explained his intent to venture there and discover everything he could about the Miraak behind the attempt on his life. "Someone on that island wants me dead. It's only reasonable I find out more about that person—who he is, and how he knows what he knows."

"But now, though?" asked the dark elf. "You're in no shape to be fighting anyone, Grimnir."

"I'm healing faster than I thought—probably the dragon in me. I don't see myself needing this cane by the end of the week." He cast a dispassionate look at the walking stick in his lap, though the effect was lost on account of the impassive mask that covered his eye.

"Your legs and your back are one thing," Brelyna said, lowering her voice so no one could hear—Tolfdir had done his best to limit the full extent of Grimnir's injuries to the senior staff at Winterhold, and to Grimnir's closest of confidants. "But your senses—especially where your sight's concerned—are another story. You're going to be living with a massive blind spot for the rest of your life. You'll have to learn how to do everything you've ever learned about battle all over again."

Grimnir sighed, running a hand over Morokei. "Then I guess I'd better get started," he said. "I can start learning as soon as we board the _Northern Maiden_. I just hope it's still docked there after the last time we were in Windhelm."

Brelyna was eyeing him with a sad sort of resignation. "I knew it'd be a miracle if I could talk you out of it," she sighed. "But I just didn't want you to think I didn't have your own health in mind. I can't promise I'll be around to watch your back over there—but maybe you can take the chance to visit me from time to time."

There was a distinct lack of J'zargo and Onmund in her words, Grimnir thought with a frown. "It's a long way to Solstheim," he said, "and somehow I don't think I'll be able to charter my own personal boat just to get back to the College and visit you all—especially not if Miraak turns out to be one more threat to the world for me to deal with."

The dark elf's expression became sadder, and more resigned still, and Grimnir knew then that something was off. "All right, Brelyna—what's going on here? You're starting to look like you're writing my own eulogy."

Brelyna chewed her tongue for some time, and when she next spoke, each word she spoke sounded as though it was on tenterhooks—like she'd was about to deliver some bad news.

"I wanted to talk about it with you before, but then … " She stopped, cleared her throat—Grimnir wondered if she was reluctant to bring up the subject of M'Alga—and spoke again, more clearly this time. "Tolfdir sent me a letter. From Drevis, shortly before you left for Mzulft. He's offered to assist House Redoran with the rebuilding efforts in Morrowind.

Grimnir remembered his talk with the Master Wizard, after they'd arrived from Windhelm; now he thought back on it, Tolfdir had indeed mentioned some kind of letter from the illusion instructor. He looked at Brelyna, and sensed that this piece of information was something she'd wanted to talk about for some time—perhaps ever since the letter had arrived. Recent events, however, had dispelled all thought of the correspondence from everyone's mind.

"And?" was all the Arch-Mage eventually said.

"I replied back to him," said Brelyna, "while Colette was healing your injuries." Her words took on a more guilty tone; she wasn't looking Grimnir in the eye, either, which was a big tell to him. "And I might have … insinuated that you were planning to go to Solstheim at some point in the near future. He'd like me to come with you."

Grimnir's loud sigh came as a metallic hissing noise through the carved mouth of Morokei. "Brelyna, I appreciate the thought, but neither of us knows what's out there. Especially after … " He did not want to say M'Alga's name.

The Dunmer, however, waved him off. "I wasn't implying _that_," she said airily. Her voice was much more composed than before; perhaps Grimnir's reaction to her news had been better than what she'd been expecting. "Drevis reckons it's high time I studied under a _real_ Telvanni. There's a Master who lives on the island, name of Neloth, that he'd work alongside every so often. The arrangements have already been made."

The Arch-Mage listened to his friend with a sinking feeling. He'd known Brelyna had come from mages' stock—she often joked that her family had applied her for every Mages' Guild in the east the day she'd been born. But being a part of House Telvanni had left her with a lot to live up to—and though she was an exemplary mage by any description, Grimnir had known deep inside him that sooner or later, the College would have nothing left to teach her, and she would have no reason to stay here any more.

He was grateful, however, that Brelyna seemed to be taking this letter rather well—no doubt she, too, had know this day was eventually coming. "You should drop on by if ever you get a chance, Grimnir," she told him. "The Telvanni aren't exactly known for being social, after all. I could use a familiar face to talk to."

"Have you broken the news to Onmund and J'zargo?"

"She did," a voice from behind him answered. Grimnir only just stopped himself from leaping up in surprise—he hadn't heard Onmund walk up behind him. The Arch-Mage was further surprised when he turned round to look at Onmund: the Nord wasn't looking him in the eye at all. Something was clearly bothering him, Grimnir thought.

"It was the day after we brought you back to Winterhold," Onmund said, mumbling his words slightly; Grimnir had to lean in close with his good ear to hear what he was saying. "She would have said something sooner, she told us—but we were too worried about … " He broke off here, but Grimnir didn't need him to go on, and he felt touched by the affection his companions had shown him while he'd been so gravely injured.

"Are you still worried about me, Onmund?" he soothed him, wondering if that was why the Nord was feeling so uneasy. "I'm feeling better; I just told Brelyna that I won't be needing to dodder around on a cane before long."

"I-it's not that," Onmund stammered out. "It's … I wanted to tell you sooner, but … "

"It's all right," Grimnir said as gently as his voice could let him, patting Onmund on the shoulder. "I know you all were too concerned about me to say anything. But I'm alive, and I'm here. So—what's on your mind?"

He never caught Onmund's next words; the Nord had delivered them so quickly and so quietly. "Sorry? What was that?"

Onmund's lips pursed briefly, as if he was already wishing he could take those words back. But he swallowed, and spoke again. " … I'd … I'd like to study the Voice … a-at High Hrothgar."

_That_ took the Arch-Mage aback. Not only was this the very last answer he'd expected—Onmund had never once showed any inclination to wanting to learn more about the Thu'um beyond his admiration of Grimnir's own mastery—but he wasn't even sure if that was possible. There was a reason there were only five Greybeards in existence today—the Voice was not taught lightly, and certainly not learned to fulfill some cheap power fantasy.

"I want to know what it's like for you," Onmund went on. "I don't know how close I'll get to your level, and I know I'll have an uphill road ahead of me … but I'm not worried about that. I want to do this because … maybe this can help me … understand you a little better."

Grimnir listened to the explanation with a growing sense of respect. Onmund wasn't interested in gaining power through knowledge—or even the reverse. He wanted to pursue this knowledge for its own sake; he truly was intent on learning why Grimnir was who he was, and what he was capable of doing. Whether or not he wanted to master the Voice was irrelevant, so long as he understood his own relationship to it.

Although … "If I didn't know better, I'd say J'zargo's rubbing off on you," Grimnir said with a laugh. "I ought to be worried I might not be Arch-Mage for much longer, now." That made Onmund go pink, a rare sight indeed, and he rubbed the back of his head in mock embarrassment.

"Of course. I'll take you to the Greybeards before I—_we_ leave for Solstheim," Grimnir went on, sparing a look at Brelyna. "I can't guarantee anything will come of it, of course. They haven't taken anyone in for a long time—years, certainly, and likely longer than I've been alive if you don't count Ulfric Stormcloak. But I can't think of a better student for them than you.

"There's one thing that's bothering me, though," the Arch-Mage said, as a sudden thought occurred to him. "If Drevis is going to assist with getting Morrowind back on its feet, Brelyna, it sounds to me like he won't be back at Winterhold for a while. So who's going to take his place?"

Onmund was looking around. "More importantly—where's J'zargo?"

As if in response, the Khajiit appeared right next to his shoulder from out of thin air. "Now you see J'zargo … now you do not."

This time, Grimnir really did jump—along with Onmund and Brelyna. "How long have you been standing there?" cried the Nord indignantly. The new illusion instructor only grinned back at him with a sly wink.

"That might be the most terrifying sight I've seen yet," Grimnir joked—and then he did something he'd never done before, and pulled all three of his companions into a crushing hug. His walking stick clattered to the floor, forgotten in this moment of rare, long-overdue jubilation.

"Mara help me, I'm going to miss you all," said the Arch-Mage, to murmurs of agreement.

He retrieved his cane, and then made for the stairs to the Hall of the Elements. "Come along, now—come along!"

"Where are you going?" Brelyna called after him.

"The Frozen Hearth," Grimnir called back. "One last round between us—and it's all on me. After all we've been through—and all we've got ahead of us—I think we're long overdue.

"And then," he added, his single eye looking directly at Onmund, "we'll all go up to High Hrothgar with you—just the four of us—and we'll give you a proper good-bye there."

No one in their right mind would have disagreed with the offer—and certainly none of the four mages.

And so, for one last time, they left the College together as one. They did not talk of the paths that lay ahead for each of them, only of the exploits and adventures they had made in the past. For one more day—for these mages that had gone through thick and thin, fought forces beyond reckoning, and emerged the stronger for it—the future could wait.

* * *

_Mzurkunch_

Only recently had the Falmer begun to creep back into the Dwarven ruins deep beneath the earth. After the events that had taken place here mere weeks ago, and the slaughter that had taken place, the few cave-elves that had survived had retreated into the crevices of the Sightless Pit, waiting out the massacre until the lights and sounds had died down for a time. Then, when all was quiet, they squirmed out of the filthy cracks once more, and began the process of reclaiming the hive they called home.

That had been two days ago—and as it turned out, it had been too soon for them to make their move. They had severely underestimated the lone traveler, and paid the ultimate price.

The chieftain of the hive sizzled as he died, and the throaty shriek died in his throat as the shocks of lightning finally claimed his life. The stink of charred flesh and roasted chitin filled the air—for the second time in two weeks, the bowels of Mzurkunch had been turned into an abattoir.

Amidst the carnage and gore, a single man moved. His gait was deceptively unsteadly—shuffling this way and that, doddering with every step he took—but he did not stumble even once as he made his way across the pavilion that overlooked the glittering cave.

Large, hairy nostrils sniffed the air, rank with the smell of dead and dying—and of the faintest traces of dark magic. The man kept on sniffing as he walked on, as if determined to reach his goal through his sense of smell alone. But his eyes, half-clouded with great age, had not yet failed him—though his broken mind wasn't to know that; at any rate, it wasn't his mind that had guided him to this place.

At length, he reached the exact center of the platform. The Dwarven machinery here had not been _completely_ destroyed in the event that had created the horror once called M'Alga. The mysterious metal of the dwarves was too durable to be destroyed so easily, and more importantly, parts of the machine had yet survived. Were any Dwemer alive today, they might have found at least a dozen elements that were still serviceable to some extent; as there were none, however, most men and mer would take one look at this place, and find nothing worth of interest.

But the figure in Mzurkunch right now was _not_ most men and mer—and there was very much something worth of interest here, something he had been in search of for a very long time.

He grasped at the small metal tubing he had just picked up in his hands, turning it over and over in his gnarled, spotted hands, eyeing it mere inches from his face, inspecting it in as much detail as his eyes would allow.

Then, his mouth split in a silent, gap-toothed grin of triumph. A wheezy laugh echoed through the halls of Mzurkunch … and on the heels of those echoes, he spoke.

_"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond … I'll know your lost unknown … and rise to your depths … "_

* * *

_Two days later_

High Hrothgar loomed before them with a forbidding air.

Grimnir had offered to take Onmund and the others there on Odahviing, but the young Nord, to Grimnir's surprise, had expressed his wish to walk the Seven Thousand Steps that led to the monastery. At the time, Grimnir could not fathom why—the path was long and perilous, and he thought too much of Onmund to have him walk the Steps himself. He had thus made a compromise—that he and the others would walk along with Onmund to the home of the Greybeards, so they could protect him along the way—and say a proper farewell there.

Along the way, Onmund had noticed the ten stone shrines that lined the Steps, and taken the time to read the tablets etched into each one that told of how High Hrothgar had come to be. He spent minutes at a time reading them, seemingly unaffected by the rising chill that bit into their clothing with each step they climbed—but Grimnir stood fast. This was what Onmund had wanted, he knew, and it was his duty as a friend to help him see it through.

And, he reflected, there was another reason why he had wanted to come here.

At last, the four mages arrived upon the front door of the monastery. The moonlight cast shadows over them; so high up were they that there were no clouds to obscure the two moons, and the multitude of stars in the sky. The gilded bronze doors swung open at a touch, and without a sound, oiled with time and melted snow.

Grimnir felt the flood of memories surge through him as he stepped inside. Already he could hear the first words spoken to him by their Master: _So … a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age …_

He remembered how the Greybeards had tested his Voice, and at times his bones still thrummed from when they had Spoken to him in unison, and named him Ysmir, Dragon of the North. He remembered the animosity the Greybeards had shown the Blades before the peace talks he had hosted here … and he remembered the moments afterward, when the Blades had spoken words so profane he had shunned them all—but unable to escape the history of their mutual past, he could do little more than run away.

The flood of memories ebbed suddenly when he saw the man in the furred grey cloak walking toward them.

Arngeir's face had gained a few more wrinkles in the years since they'd last met, and his gait was slower, too, in his age. But the eyes of the Master of the Greybeards yet burned with a flame that even Grimnir could not help but feel humbled by. It had all the warmth of an old man—but all the coldness of a warrior beneath.

"Welcome back, Dragonborn." Of the four Greybeards that resided here, Arngeir alone could speak plainly to them; Wulfgar, Borri, and Einarth's Voices carried such power that anything above a whisper would not only destroy Grimnir, but High Hrothgar as well. "We were not expecting you to come back so soon."

His eyes flitted to the others behind him. "And who are these?"

Grimnir nodded at Onmund, and the young Nord stepped forward. His voice was tremulous, but carried throughout the great hall of the monastery nonetheless. "I … I wish to learn about the Way of the Voice." A gulp, and a deep breath. "I wish to learn … what it means to be Dragonborn."

Arngeir blinked, and his brow furrowed as he turned to Grimnir. "I believe an explanation is in order," he said sternly. "The Greybeards have taken in precisely two disciples in the past forty years—and on neither occasion did they come to us of their own free will."

He stared at the Arch-Mage, those gray eyes shining so brightly that Grimnir had the feeling Arngeir could see right through him—and then his attention was focused back to Onmund. "I can only assume, then, that you would bring this … _lad_ to me—but for what reason?"

Grimnir took a few moments to think of a suitable reply. He had expected Arngeir's initial impression to be less than positive—but he was still banking on his word to help Onmund fulfill his dream.

"The decision was his to make," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I didn't pressure him in any way—although I may have been responsible for it to an extent."

The silvery gaze did not waver. "Explain."

_Here comes the hard part_. "That's … complicated," he said. "Suffice it to say that Onmund here isn't the only one with that question on his mind. I've been wondering the same thing myself, over the past week—recent events have made me … _unsure_ of a great deal of things." He thought of the strange dark elves they'd encountered, and of the shining scales of fire that had encased his body in Windhelm and on Ancient's Ascent. "I want to learn more about what it means to be Dragonborn myself."

His single eye stared back into Arngeir's gaze, and Grimnir nodded at him—just barely enough that Arngeir was the only one who saw it—hoping that the speaker for the Greybeards would take the meaning behind his words.

"As for Onmund," the Arch-Mage went on, "I can vouch for him. I know this is unprecedented, and that he may be young, but he has helped see me through some very rough times in my life. He is one of the few people I can truly call my friend—and I cannot think of a soul more worthy to study the Way of the Voice than him."

Onmund looked as if he was ready to break down then and there. Grimnir had never seen the Nord look so proud of himself—not even after everything he had done in Labyrinthian.

Every eye now fixed itself on Arngeir. The old man was silent for an uncomfortably long time. His eyes were staring at nothing in particular, one moment fixed on the stone floor, another looking to the sky as if in prayer.

Then, he clapped his hands once—and everyone but Grimnir stepped backward as a second Greybeard materialized among them, almost out of thin air but for the flicker of wind he had cast. _Whirlwind Sprint_, Grimnir knew—and as fine a one as he'd ever seen; the monk hadn't even made a whisper. For all his mastery of the Voice—even going so far as to create new Shouts entirely—the Arch-Mage knew he still had much to learn from the Greybeards.

Arngeir spoke to the new arrival. "Master Einarth. Prepare a space for this young man. He will be staying with us for a time."

J'zargo pumped a fist in triumph before Einarth had even whirled away from their sight to do Arngeir's bidding. Brelyna's smile was wider than any Grimnir had ever seen from her, and was clearly fighting the temptation to embrace Onmund—and the Arch-Mage was broadly grinning himself, even if Morokei wouldn't let anyone see it.

Sensing the jubilation to come, Arngeir quickly continued, "I tell you now, your path will be long and perilous—and no less so for the person who has vouched for you." He cast a brief look at Grimnir.

"But if you remain true to the Way of the Voice," he continued, folding his hands, "if you possess the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you, then you will master much, and learn much more."

Grimnir had a passing thought that Arngeir wasn't simply talking to Onmund alone. But the old monk neither confirmed nor denied his suspicion, and Onmund, who did not seem to be aware of Grimnir's thoughts, performed a simple bow. "I understand," he said.

Arngeir bowed back "I will give you a moment to say farewell," he said, "and then you will join me in the courtyard for your first lesson." He whirled away with nary a sound.

J'zargo was the first to embrace Onmund, and leapt over so quickly and unexpectedly that the two mages nearly toppled to the floor. Brelyna and Grimnir were more reserved; the Dunmer was positively beaming at Onmund, and waited until J'zargo had untangled himself from the Nord before she, too, embraced her friend.

As for Grimnir … There was nothing left to say; neither Nord needed words to punctuate the moment. Though he could not plumb the depths of Onmund's mind to find out what his friend was thinking, Grimnir knew his zeal was genuine; Onmund did indeed want to learn about not only the Voice, but the Dragonborn who could use it. In this, their goals were the same—but here, the similarities of their mindsets ended.

For even though Onmund was ready to face his future with courage and a ready mind, Grimnir was now more uncertain of himself than he'd ever been before—even more so than when he had first been acknowledged as that ancient hero of old, before he had learned of the destiny he shared with the dragons. The Arch-Mage only knew that he would have to return to the place where he had first learned these truths, and learn more about the power that resided within him. Perhaps he could suppress it, or even control it—but he knew that he would have to do either one or the other before he could face M'Alga again.

Time passed, and still the Nords looked into each other's eyes, oblivious to the world around them, not hearing the oaths and promises from Brelyna and J'zargo to visit Onmund again soon. Finally, Grimnir nodded once, and even though Morokei would not betray his face to his friend, he mouthed a silent, but heartfelt, _Sky above, Voice within._

_Good luck, my friend … and thank you._

Then, without further ado, Grimnir turned away, and headed for the courtyard of High Hrothgar—where his true destination loomed before him.

* * *

_Somewhere in the Sea of Pearls_

The landmasses of coral that comprised the Thrassian Archipelago, the half-ring of islands that the Sload called home, numbered many, and varied over the years—but none of these was larger or more recognizable than Agonio.

No one knew if Agonio or the other islands had once been part of a larger landmass, its vast majority now claimed by the sea far to the west of Tamriel—and the Sload certainly weren't telling. No civilization had ventured this far west in the known world in thousands of years, and given what was known of the Sload, no civilization was willing to try again any time soon.

The wrecks of hundreds of ships, from an era long gone, lingered still in the central lagoon of the atoll. In life, these vessels had been the strong arm of the All Flags Navy, the hammer blow of a continent reeling from death and disease, and raring for revenge against the Sload who had unleashed the plague on the world. Now, in death, these rotted hulks formed a crucial part of the infrastructure that bound these islands together; the Sload, using their arcane magicks, could move through these ships with greater ease than their considerable bulk would normally allow.

M'Alga's beady eyes roved lazily over the wrecks as he approached Agonio. Unable to walk on his own, as most Sload of his age were, M'Alga had been forced to rely on more unconventional means of transportation barely a decade after his spawning. The slab of coral that presently skimmed the brackish lagoon was only one such method; though teleportation was certainly quicker in its execution, _this_ was much more reliable and versatile—especially since no level of conjuration magic could keep M'Alga from otherwise collapsing under his own blubbery weight.

The Sload reclined now on his floating dais, and plucked several barnacles from the grayish-red skin of his flabby chest, inspecting each one with a passing glance before crushing them raw between his flat teeth. As he ate his crude meal, he mused about his confrontation with the Dragonborn of Tamriel, and the events he had knowingly set into motion—though he knew not how far-reaching these events would be.

_This one was not intended to know such things, no,_ he thought to himself. It mattered not how great an impact he had made upon the world with his revelation atop that mountain in Skyrim. For even the smallest pebble could send ripples throughout the largest ocean. All that mattered was that he had finally revealed himself. What happened next was not his to decide.

The waves gave way to beaches as M'Alga made landfall. The thin strip of sand ended almost immediately as it began, sloping upward in rocky shapes, than spiraling upwards and upwards a thousand feet or more into the landmass that made Agonio—and all of the archipelago by extension—so recognizable.

Two thousand years ago, this had once been the infamous Coral Tower. The millions upon millions of blood-red creatures that this structure had been grown from had been created by the Sload for the very purpose of piercing the sky—and making it rain blood. Atop this immeasurably high spike of coral lay a portal to Coldharbour, where rested the Harvester of Souls himself, Molag Bal.

The All-Flags Navy had sieged this great Tower, and cast it into the sea, whereupon a great maelstrom appeared that had swallowed half that massive fleet in a single gulp—and all of Thras with it. It had not been until relatively recently that the archipelago had been restored to its previous state—and it would not be for another long time still that the Sload would reach those lofty heights again.

However, though the thousand-foot tall spike that had been erected in its place would never reach those heights until then, the Sload were content to wait until that moment to plan their counterstrike upon Tamriel.

And as M'Alga applied a burst of magic to his mobile throne, bringing it to a stop before the Pillar of Thras—then scaling its great height with all the speed and grace of a soaring falcon—he pondered if his prowess in magic would eventually see him at the front lines of that counterstrike. He did not particularly care, but the thought of finally bringing his plans to fruition before an unsuspecting Tamriel amused him briefly.

The Sload thought no further on the subject until he had crested the top of the Pillar, and slowed to a halt upon its summit. Then, he waited here, gazing out over the endless expanse of ocean that lay out to the northeast …

* * *

_The Throat of the World_

At that moment, Grimnir Torn-Skull's feet finally brought him to a halt, and he gazed now at Skyrim from the summit of its tallest mountain—the tallest, indeed, in all of Tamriel with the eruption of the Red Mountain two hundred years ago.

Paarthurnax was still there, perched on his usual roost, and Grimnir felt the ancient dragon's eyes stare at him intently. But for the moment, he did not acknowledge him; there would be time later to talk, as much time as they desired—and the Arch-Mage planned on using every second of it.

For now, though, he concerned himself with the scene in front of him, shielding his one eye from the sliver of the sun that streamed through Morokei. The whole of Tamriel lay below him; from this position, he could see all the way into Markarth, and Hammerfell and High Rock—and at the extreme edge of the horizon, just above the tips of the mountain ranges that encircled Skyrim, Grimnir saw the edges of the western coast, and the ocean beyond.

He concentrated his gaze at a point in the southeast, where he imagined the isles of Thras might be, and his idle thoughts turned once again towards M'Alga, and if the nefarious Sload was thinking about _him_ right now, and the threat they each possessed to one another.

And for one brief, passing moment—though neither man nor Sload would ever know—their eyes met.

* * *

**A/N: And that's the end of ****_First Seed!_**** It's astonished me how little time this entire fic took me to complete—I suppose it's a perk of not having to deal with college classes anymore.**

**So: where to go from here? Well, writing so many words in such a short time has drained me pretty badly. Again. I'm planning on taking an extended break over July, and probably a bit of August to set my personal affairs in order and ****play Terraria**** UM I MEAN plan out some future stories of mine. ****_Rain's Hand_**** will be my top priority—give that a look-see if you haven't already!—but I'll also be taking the time to flesh out some one-shots as well. If I'm lucky, I could conceivably release one or two of those over the next month or so, but like I pointed out in the last chapter, at least you'll know what's happening on my end if I'm not able to hold myself to such lofty goals.**

**Thanks to all of you once again for reading ****_First Seed_****, and I hope you enjoyed it! - K**


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